


Haunt Me, Then

by ode_to_an_inkwell



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Blood Magic, F/M, Ghosts, Grave Robbery, Haunting, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-05
Updated: 2019-11-05
Packaged: 2020-11-24 08:51:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 25,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20904941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ode_to_an_inkwell/pseuds/ode_to_an_inkwell
Summary: Sansa Stark settles into her new cabin in the woods, but begins to notice a few strange occurrences. It isn't until a bewitched necklace reveals the truth that she realizes her home is haunted by a gray eyed stranger.





	1. The Haunting

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Amymel86](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amymel86/gifts), [vivilove](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vivilove/gifts).

> Self indulgent Spooktober fic!  
The creep factor comes and goes, because I'm a die hard romantic (as well as a die hard Jonsa). This fic won't be super long, but I have the story all laid out. This is only my second multi chapter work, so please let me know what you think!  
I hope you all enjoy this ghostly romance <3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A massive shout out to the incredible nyssanoone for creating this beautiful edit for my fic. It's so pretty and I feel quite unworthy. Thank you x1000!

Summer was nearing its conclusion when Sansa Stark moved into the cabin at the end of Wolfsway. Originally built in the 1800’s, the cozy home with two bedrooms and a fireplace possessed an old charm while still offering seclusion.

Sansa needed seclusion. She still wasn’t ready to discuss the reason behind leaving her previous job, and writing from home in the middle of nowhere ensured a safe and controlled atmosphere. Her nearest neighbor owned a large property, their houses separated by a quarter mile.

And best of all, the house sold for a ridiculously marked down price.

Robb Stark, her brother, carried one end of the green loveseat while Sansa carried the other. The rest of their siblings helped in the move as well, following each other to and from the truck with boxes.

“Jesus, Sans. What do have in here, rocks?”

She gave her baby brother an affectionate smile. “Books, Rickon.”

“Same thing,” he mumbled, and stepped over the threshold.

“Keep that knife I gave you by your bed,” Arya advised. “You don’t know what kinda creeps could come around out here.”

“I think it’s peaceful,” Bran argued, helping Robb with the bedframe now. “Should be good for bird watching.”

The five kept up the banter throughout the process until the truck was finally unloaded. Sansa treated her siblings to pizza by way of thanks, the five gathered around her coffee table for another hour.

“You should hang some bird feeders,” Bran said, continuing the earlier topic.

“I think she should get a dog,” Rickon countered, tossing his crust back into the pizza box. “It could get lonely out here.”

Sansa listened to them all patiently, savoring their cheer. The younger ones still had some of that—jovial youth. She and Robb had lost it when their parents died, and they’d been forced to take over that role.

Once bellies settled and the sun began to set, they stuck around for a bit of light unpacking. Sansa put books on her shelf, trying to figure out a system. She was using the second bedroom as a sort of study, a home for her books and writing desk. Robb put her bed together while Arya supervised kitchen duty, filling cabinets with plates and cups. Sansa owned only two bowls, preferring to eat soup or ice cream out of one of her giant mugs.

She was nearly finished with the third row when her copy of H.G. Wells’ _The Invisible Man_ slid to the floor. She sighed before replacing it on the shelf.

Once her brothers and sister hugged her and left, Sansa found herself home alone for the first time ever. The little house felt peaceful, though she was still unaccustomed to such quiet. She played music from her phone while she hung clothes in the closet.

When her sore muscles got the best of her, she gave in to a hot shower. Her toiletries and a new loofa were all bundled together in a tote bag, but she had to stumble around nude and dripping wet in search of her towels. She thought they might’ve been packed in a suitcase with her clothes, but no dice. At last, a box in the corner tipped over and her fluffy towels spilled out.

Dressed, she made her bed with the new sheets and sunk down into the mattress, then played on her phone until it died. In the morning she’d have to find its charger.

***

A week later, Sansa had completely settled. She’d picked up log bags from the store in town and kept them in a crate near the fireplace. The mantle boasted a painting her friend Jeyne had gifted her, plus a small framed photo of the Stark clan. Rugs were scattered on the hard wood, and her books were finally organized.

She liked to drink her coffee on the back porch. No one would’ve called her an outdoorsy kind of girl, but something about these woods felt like sanctuary. The trees came right up to the steps, and their leaves had just begun their shift into a multitude of colors. When the birds chirped she found herself whistling back.

As the days wore on Sansa noticed a few strange occurrences. Every morning she found one of her books sitting open on the desk. After that she started waking with her blankets on the floor, as well. Concerned yet practical, she figured this was all due to a strange bout of sleepwalking. An internet search of sleep-reading brought few results, so she called her brother.

“Do you remember Aunt Lysa?” she asked.

“You spent more time with her,” Robb said. “But I can remember her visits.”

“She was a little…strange, wasn’t she? Did mom or dad ever mention her having memory problems? Or doing things in her sleep?”

A muffled crunch sounded down the line, telling her that Robb was eating something as they spoke. “Not that I can recall. I’d call Lysa more unhinged than strange. Why?”

She tugged at a loose thread on her throw pillow. “I was just curious,” she said, then changed the subject.

The next morning Sansa went to her study to see if she’d done it again, and found a pile of books on her floor.

It didn’t take long to reshelf the books. She checked if there had been an earthquake in the area, but none were reported. That day she had an appointment with a sleep therapist, anyway. She’d never done things in her sleep before, but maybe the quiet was messing with her.

The therapist suggested she record herself sleeping to observe any disturbances in the night. The idea gave her a creepy feeling, but how else was she to know?

When she got back from town, she changed into her athletic clothes and went for a run, thinking maybe her disturbed sleep arose from a lack of exertion during the day.

The woods behind her house still brought her comfort. She jogged a circular path, returning as the sun began to set. Near her back porch, the light caught something in her eye. The tree by the steps had a glint to it. She approached, curious, and found a delicate chain hanging from a low limb. She disentangled it and withdrew a necklace, the bauble a dirty coin or something.

Sansa tucked her new trinket into the pocket of her hoodie and headed inside.

She hydrated, then went to the bathroom to shower. When she tossed her clothes to the floor, the necklace chimed against the tile. She picked it up and scrubbed it at the sink.

The dirt rinsed away easily to reveal a silver coin sporting the outline of a wolf’s head. It was pretty. It made her think of her father—he’d always had an affinity for wolves. She set it beside the sink and stepped into the spray.

After the shower, she wrapped herself in a towel and reached for the necklace. The chain, surprisingly, had no rust. She unclasped it and put it on, the wolf coin falling between her collar bones.

In the mirror two gray eyes appeared.

She screamed.

“Who the hell…?!” she cried, rounding on the stranger and clutching her towel closer. “What are you doing?!”

The stranger’s gray eyes widened, his mouth dropping in shock.

_“You can see me?”_


	2. The Stranger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa speaks with her ghost, and learns his name. She tries to decide whether or not Jon will do her any harm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, two chapters in one day! This story is fairly fast-paced, so I hope it flows well.  
Enjoy!

“Get away from me! I have a knife!”

The knife was tucked into her bedside table, and Sansa still stood in the bathroom clothed only in a towel. The stranger blocked the door.

“I won’t hurt you, Sansa,” he promised, holding his hands up as if to ward her off.

She grasped her throat, heart hammering beneath the skin.

“How do you know my name?”

His face twitched with joy. “You can see me and you can hear me. I can’t believe—”

“Get out of my house!” Sansa leaned back onto her sink for support and kicked out at the man around his groin area.

Her foot went through him.

She gaped in horror before instinct bid her to run. She passed through the man, her body covered in chills, and slammed her bedroom door before he could follow. Locking the door, she searched for her phone to call the police.

_I left it in the kitchen._

Panic unfurled in her chest, but she clung to calm. She threw some clothes on and retrieved the knife from her bedside table, waiting.

“Forgive me, please!” She jumped at his voice, just outside the door. “I didn’t mean to scare you!”

“Why are you in my house?” she called.

“It’s my house, too. At least, I think it is. I can’t leave.”

“Like hell you can’t. I’m calling the police right now!”

The man moved past the door, entering her room now. She threw her knife at him. It flew into his chest and kept going, bouncing off the wall behind him before it fell to the floor. She huddled into the far corner.

“Sansa—”

“I’m calling a priest! He’ll make you leave!”

“I can’t leave,” he repeated, and approached her slowly. “I’ve been here for…as long as I can remember.” He walked through her bed and stopped just a few feet away. “I was here before you. I watched you set out your pretty things and stack your books.”

She blinked several times, but he was still there.

“Are you a—are you dead?” she whispered.

His brow furrowed. She looked at him for the first time, took in his dated clothes and rigid posture. He wore boots, yet they made no sound on the wooden floor. His hair fell in elegant loops, undisturbed by the fan spinning above them.

“I can’t remember,” he said finally.

_A ghost. He must be._

“How do you know my name?”

“Sansa?” He smiled—it was a lovely smile. “It’s what they called you. The people you brought.”

She considered running again, but he blocked her path. Moving _through_ him the last time had given her goosebumps, and at any rate it felt rude. Not that ghosts bothered with manners—not that she knew! She’d never met a ghost before, had she?

“Can you remember anything?”

He swallowed, eyes falling to her knees. “My name is Jon.”

“Jon?”

He nodded.

They stood and stared at each other for a long time. She recognized his shirt to be made of muslin, the sleeves rolled up around his elbows. She thought of a thousand more questions to ask him, but just held his gaze. He almost looked afraid, like he was waiting for something.

“I need a drink,” she said, and inched past him with her back to the wall still.

Jon watched her move to the door, then followed her to the kitchen where she poured herself a tall glass of wine. Sansa sat at her kitchen table and he stood at the other side. She took three deep gulps, staring at him all the while.

“You’ve been watching me?”

“I…” his face fell to the floor, arms stiff at his sides. “I had no intention of spying, or—the house was empty before you came here, so I—I tried speaking with you, but you couldn’t hear me.”

“Until tonight,” she clarified.

“Yes ma’am.” He looked up at her again, some kind of desperation rolling off of him. “Tonight.”

The word hung between them.

“Why?” she asked. “Why tonight?”

He gestured toward her. “I think it happened when you put that medallion on.”

Sansa reached up to touch the necklace…which she’d put on after her shower. Rage mixed with embarrassment flooded her veins.

“You’ve been watching me,” she repeated, an accusation this time. His eyebrows shot up. “In the shower, when I’m undressed.”

“No!” he replied, and rounded the table. “I would never impose, I always look away when you’re undressed! I just like being near—”

“My blankets!”

He was still again. The peeping ghost had the grace to look abashed, worrying his lip between his teeth.

“You’ve been taking my blankets off me when I sleep, haven’t you?”

“I’m sorry.” His voice was hoarse, as if his noncorporeal throat were constricted. “I’ve been alone for so long, and having you here has overwhelmed me. You’re lovely, and you’ve brought me hope—”

“Leave me alone!” she cried, inching away from him now.

“I can’t!”

He was insane. Or she was. Who could say?

Sansa took the wolf coin and ripped it from around her neck. Jon vanished. She threw the necklace across the room.

_BANG!_

She jumped to her feet. The table shook as if someone had slammed their fists upon it. Her glass tipped over, sloshing wine onto the wood.

She ran.

Once she slammed her bedroom door shut, she dove for the mattress and huddled under the covers, her knees to her chest. The door burst open, and she jumped again with a yelp.

“Go away! _Go away!_”

She repeated the two words for what felt like hours until she cried herself to sleep.

***

When Sansa woke, she thought it all a nightmare.

The knife sat in her drawer and there was no wine spill in the kitchen. With no evidence, it _must_ have been a dream. Ghosts didn’t exist. And if they did they certainly weren’t handsome ghosts named Jon.

She fixed herself breakfast, then checked her emails.

The journal she wrote for had posted the latest issue overnight. Her article on the DIY craze stemming from both a monetarily barren populace and a disenfranchised youth who learned self-reliance had already received over a hundred comments. She typed a response to her editor, then did some research for her next assigned piece.

Morning drifted into afternoon, and Sansa decided to go into town for groceries. A few faces already looked familiar, and she greeted each of them warmly. Back home, she unloaded the car and put her food away. Then she worked on her article until dark.

After dinner she went for a shower, still feeling stiff from last night’s sleep. The water ran until it lost heat and she toweled off. Sansa stepped in front of the sink and froze.

A word was carved in the steam on her mirror.

_Please_

Her nightmare was more than a dream. It was a waking horror.

A full minute later, her lungs opened again. She panted, shivering on the bathmat.

“Jon?”

She wasn’t sure what response she expected, but none came.

“Knock once for yes and twice for no,” she called. “Jon, are you here?”

A soft knock came from behind the bathroom door. Whatever adrenaline her body retained spiked once more. She tried and failed to speak calmly.

“I need to—to dress. Go to the kitchen and I’ll meet you there. O-o-okay?”

Another knock.

What was she doing? Speaking with the unseen never led to anything good. In the movies the unseen thing was typically a demon only pretending at benevolence. If she put the necklace on she could at least see him again.

_And put my trust in an unknown object?_

Who knew where the necklace had even come from? What if it wasn’t revealing the unseen to her so much as projecting a false, charming image to gain her trust? Of course a demon would pose as a handsome man! Most handsome men _were_ demons, in her experience.

She gripped the handle tightly before whipping the door open. Nothing was there. She fled to her room and pulled her clothes on, then ran to the study.

The top shelf of her bookcase held tomes on philosophy—Diogenes, Arendt, De Beauvoir, Confucius, the Bible. At a loss, she pulled the Bible down in the hopes that it would help her ascertain the presence of anything…malicious.

Sansa tiptoed to the kitchen, keeping her back to the walls as she went. She tried to control her shaking, but it couldn’t be helped.

Hidden beneath the bottom cabinets, she spied the necklace laying where it had been discarded. She pulled out a chair and sat, clutching the Bible in her hands like a life preserver.

“Are you here to hurt me?”

_Knock knock._

It couldn’t be trusted, of course. She set the Bible on the table before her.

“Am I supposed to just believe you?”

_Knock knock_.

He wanted her to put the necklace back on. The soft knocks begged for a chance at explanation. Sansa wasn’t sure yet if she would give him that chance. Her palms were slick now.

“And why shouldn’t I run screaming?”

After a moment, the Bible spun around to the other side of the table. It opened, and pages flipped by until he turned the book back over to her. He’d gone to Second Timothy. A verse at the top of the page was circled in orange highlighter.

_For God hath not given us the spirit of fear; but of power, of love, and of a sound mind._

She gulped. He’d been able to touch the Bible. She wasn’t sure that meant anything, but…some of her fear dissolved, regardless. Power, love, and a sound mind.

She wasn’t insane. And whatever that scripture meant, whether she believed in it or not, she refused to be cowed any longer.

Sansa rose to her full height, picked the book up.

“I’m Sansa Stark of Winterfell,” she said slowly. “This is my home, and you can’t frighten me.”

Silence.

It was the first answer she trusted. Jon didn’t want to scare her.

She went to her room and watched a show on her laptop. The only way to proceed was to behave normally—she wouldn’t monitor her behavior as if she were being watched.

The show still played as she fell asleep.

With the new day she resolved to face him. If Jon really meant to hurt her, he could have done so at any point. He’d put her knife back in its drawer rather than use it on her.

The necklace still sat where she’d tossed it on the kitchen floor. She bent down to pick it up and put it on the table, then made breakfast. The light shone in through the windows, bouncing off the medallion.

She ate her meal and wondered where Jon was hiding. He’d yet to bother her during the day, only coming out at night so far. Did that mean ghosts were nocturnal?

Once she’d rinsed her plate, she returned to the table and picked the necklace up. Though she’d ripped it from her neck, the chain remained intact. It didn’t make sense, but neither did anything else. Before she could overthink it, she put the necklace on.

“Jon?”

A few minutes passed with no response. Surely he couldn’t be sleeping. Did one require sleep if one had no body?

“Jon,” she tried again. “I want to help you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Sansa wants to help Jon. It's a step in the right direction, right?


	3. The Touch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa forms an attachment to her nightly visitor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some fluff and angst--I had so much fun writing this chapter, and I hope it shows.  
Thank you all for the feedback! I know this premise comes with some torment, but don't despair yet!

Sansa sat on the green sofa all day, waiting for some sign of him. She went back and forth on whether or not this experience was one long hallucination. Eventually her phone died, and she fetched a book to read while she waited.

He appeared at dusk.

Jon stood before the hearth, hands at his sides. He watched her, and she watched back. The room darkened around them. She eventually stood to flip on a light.

“Thank you,” he said.

She sat back down with her arms crossed.

“Where were you?”

A long moment passed while he considered her question.

“I don’t know.”

She nodded. “I did a little research on hauntings. Apparently ghosts aren’t very active during the day.”

His eyes went round. She worried her lip, afraid her nonchalance had upset him. Was he even aware that he was dead? She couldn’t bring herself to ask.

“I’m sorry if I scared you.”

“No!” he began. “I am the one who must apologize. To frighten you was never my desire, Sansa. You shall never have need to fear me again, I swear it.”

It was difficult to fear him when he looked so remorseful.

“I accept your apology.”

He exhaled a deep breath. “Thank you. Forgive me for being so familiar. I won’t take such liberties again, Miss…?”

“You can just call me Sansa,” she said, peering up at him with curiosity. “Do you remember the year you died?”

“Why? Is my manner strange to you?”

Strange was one way to put it. She struggled to find the words to explain herself, unsure if he would understand.

“People aren’t so proper these days, I guess.”

“I don’t imagine they were so proper in my day, either,” he said, and one corner of his mouth tugged up. “With strange men who stand so near women while they’re indisposed.”

She couldn’t help but laugh—it seemed the only thing to do. His face broke into a smile, then he sobered.

“I won’t intrude on your privacy again.”

As she nodded, her stomach rumbled. Jon heard it, his eyes dropping to the source of the sound. Sansa blushed.

“I should eat dinner. Do you mind?”

He shook his head and waved toward the kitchen. “Please.”

Ten minutes later, Sansa sat at the table with a grilled cheese and a mug of tomato soup. Jon shifted his weight, eyeing the old fridge the house had come with.

“You can sit down,” she said, and immediately wondered if he actually could.

He lowered his head in thanks and pulled out a chair to join her. Who would have thought she’d be impressed by such a simple act?

“Can you touch things at will?”

He grimaced. “I lack a form, I believe. Interaction requires concentration and effort. If I try to touch anything I can feel a sort of…buzzing sensation.”

She took a sip from her mug. “Yet your senses of sight and sound are intact.”

“Yes,” he said, pensive. He watched her dip her sandwich into the soup, his expression melancholic. “I’ve seen these walls for so many nights,” he mused, “but without the ability to escape them, am I really here?”

“Of course you’re here,” she said. His gaze flicked up to meet her own. “Cogito ergo sum.”

He wrinkled. “That sounds familiar. What is it? Latin?”

She nodded. “It means ‘I think, therefore I am’. The fact that you question your own existence proves that you exist.”

His mouth twisted thoughtfully, and Sansa drank the rest of her soup. When she set the mug down again she found Jon staring at her.

“What?”

“You’re very kind,” he said softly.

She cleared the table, turning away to hide her reaction. She rinsed her plate and mug and set them in the dishwasher.

“Are you widowed?”

She spun back around at the question. Jon stood now, just a few steps away from her. It was as if he needed to remain in close proximity.

“Why would you think that?”

“You live alone. Women don’t ordinarily live alone unless they’re widowed.”

“That’s no longer the case,” she said, and tried not to roll her eyes. “Women live alone for all kinds of reasons now. Some prefer the solitude.”

His gray eyes bored into her own. “Do you?”

The look sent something fluttering down her spine. How could a being without form affect her so? How could a mere look feel like a caress?

“Sometimes.”

She’d come here for solitude, but she couldn’t deny feeling lonely on occasion. Jon’s shoulders fell a fraction.

“I’m very sorry to have disturbed you, then.”

She wished to erase the regret from his features, to let him know that their conversation had solidified her opinion of him. He was a person; as real as any she’d met, and better than most.

“I’m only disturbed by your state of being,” she said softly. “If I can do anything for you, Jon, I will.”

In the quiet that followed they heard an owl hooting outside. Sansa only half listened, her attention commanded by the ghost at her side. He smiled.

“Your presence is more than enough.”

***

The air cooled as the autumn season bloomed. Sansa took to running first thing in the morning so she could shower while Jon ‘slept’. She believed his promise not to intrude upon her privacy, but she liked to make herself available to him when he appeared.

Naturally, she told no one of her nightly visitor. The situation made so little sense to her that explaining it to anyone else seemed infeasible.

Nonsensical as it was, she couldn’t say that she minded the situation.

As it happened, a phantom’s company proved rather intoxicating. Partial credit went to Jon’s confinement. The cabin’s walls made up his entire world, the five rooms land masses and her possessions their inhabitants.

And she was the axis upon which his world spun.

Holding someone’s undivided attention for hours on end could be intense, to say the least. If he were anyone else, she might find herself bored. But Jon was Jon—nothing and no one else compared.

They narrowed down the time during which Jon was alive. Through conversation, Sansa ascertained his field of knowledge. Trains were in vogue in his time. The word automobile was in his vocabulary, but he didn’t consider it a real form of transportation. This put his life somewhere in the late nineteenth, early twentieth century. Jon couldn’t recall his age, though Sansa guessed him to be in his late twenties.

“And how old are you?” he asked her one evening. He held up a hand to stop her answer. “Forgive me, that was rude. It’s just that we speak so frankly with one another.”

“That’s alright. I’m twenty-six.”

“Twenty-six,” he repeated, eyes falling to his lap.

They sat facing each other on her sofa, the fire giving him a slight shimmer around the edges. Sansa drank a glass of wine and, not for the first time, wished he could imbibe so that she didn’t have to drink alone.

“Have you ever thought of marriage?”

She coughed on her wine, not expecting that line of questioning _at all_.

“When I was younger I did,” she answered honestly, and set her now empty glass on the coffee table. “I’ve always been a bit of a romantic.” He smiled at that. “Now, though, I’m more focused on having a healthy relationship with myself. You know, these days it’s more fashionable for women to marry in their thirties.”

“Well,” he said lightly, “with the ability to live alone what need have they for husbands?”

“Precisely.”

They shared a chuckle. More and more Sansa lost herself in these conversations, forgetting for seconds at a time that Jon was dead. He might be cold, but his laugh was warm.

“I think I’ll have another glass,” she murmured.

“Staying up late again?” he asked.

She threw him a superior look over her shoulder. “I set my own schedule, Jon.”

It was true. The past few weeks, since their friendship began, she kept staying up far past her usual bedtime. She found the cabin lonely in the light, and didn’t mind sleeping in late if it meant she could spend more time with her guest.

She refused to examine her desires further than that. Jon was her friend, and she enjoyed his company. That was all that mattered. She wouldn’t discriminate against him for his noncorporeal state.

Yes, her living friends might think this to be a form of madness. No, she didn’t care at the moment. Sansa poured herself more wine and rejoined Jon in the living room.

He looked up as she returned, his expression cautious.

“Sansa?”

She sat beside him again and took a delicate sip, eyeing him over the rim of her glass.

“Might I—this is terribly presumptuous, but could I…could I try to touch you?”

Her heart stuttered.

He’d never tried it before, only moved a few objects around when he needed to.

Sansa put her glass down. He shifted closer, a look of anticipation in his eyes. She reached her hand out to him, palm up and fingers shaking.

Jon leaned forward, a line of concentration forming between his brows. His face had never been so close to hers. Her gaze shifted from his hand to his pouting lips and back again. He focused entirely on her extended palm, his fingers inching forward.

A chill brushed her skin, then passed through to her bones. She shivered. He jerked back, checking her expression. She gave him a reassuring smile.

“It tickles.”

He smiled back before he tried again.

Ten times he must have tried, but with each attempt his fingertips passed through her. He sat back, sighing his frustration.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, wondering at her own disappointment. Should she, strictly speaking, want to be touched by a ghost?

“No,” he said, voice like gravel. “The fault isn’t with you, sweet one.”

It was the first endearment he’d given her. She wanted so badly to help, to give him something tangible.

She wanted to touch him. The hollows beneath his eyes, his soft looking curls. There had to be a way.

Sansa went to the armchair by the fire to retrieve the knit blanket folded on top, then resumed her position beside him.

“Put your hands out.”

Jon did as she said and she dropped the blanket over him. It fell to the cushion.

“Try to hold this,” she clarified, a giddy grin growing on her face.

He grasped her intent, infected with her giddiness. He spread his hands before himself and signaled his readiness with a nod.

This time, he caught the blanket.

Gray and blue eyes fixed together, neither one daring to breathe, Sansa lay her palms atop his own.

Jon released a shaky breath as her weight settled upon him. His clothed fingers slid up, his thumbs brushing her little fingers. He formed a bracelet around each of her wrists and gently squeezed.

“Jon_…_”

He dropped her hands into her lap. Before she knew what was happening, he pressed a palm to her sternum. Sansa held it there through the fabric. His eyes fluttered shut.

“Your heart is racing.”

She nodded, having lost the ability to speak. He peered up at her from beneath his lashes.

“Are you afraid?”

She shook her head. There was no space for fear when he touched her.

He leaned toward her until the tips of their noses nearly met. The color of his eyes mesmerized her, a kaleidoscope of gray and brown and violet. Jon tilted his head up and ghosted a cold kiss across her forehead.

He fell through her and to the floor, his concentration spent.

“Damn it!”

He sounded as wretched as she felt.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m _so_ sorry.”

He leapt to his feet, his back to her. “I shouldn’t have tried this.”

“Don’t say that!” Jon turned to around as she spoke. “I wanted to feel you—and I did!”

“You should leave this place.”

The words stopped her cold. Was her presence so intolerable that he preferred being alone?

“You want me to go away?”

His face crumpled. “Of course I don’t, but you _should_. I can’t feel this way,” he said, his voice breaking.

Sansa took a step toward him. “What way?”

He moved backward, shaking his head. “I don’t want to trap you here, sweet one. This place is suffering. You deserve to be held and protected…to be kissed. I wish I could give you all that and more, but I can’t.”

“We don’t know that!” she argued. “We can try again.”

The despair on his face wanted to give way to hope. She knew it. Hope was a dangerous thing, though—especially so for a man who was already dead. But she wouldn’t give up so easily.

“I’m not leaving, Jon. It’s my turn to haunt you.”

He sighed, half wary and half relieved.

Sansa asked him to stay with her until she fell asleep. He tucked her in and sat beside her bed. When her eyes grew too heavy to support, Jon began whispering quietly to himself. It sounded like he prayed for strength. Strength for what, she didn't know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heartbroken? Go ahead and yell in the comments, I won't blame you.


	4. The Witch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa goes digging around for clues to Jon's past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your comments! This chapter takes a deep dive into the plot of this story. I hope you enjoy!

Sansa woke late the next day, feeling empty as her room now was. She sent her editor a short email so they wouldn’t bother her. She’d get no writing done today.

This puzzle needed solving.

Jon was ready to give in to anguish, and she couldn’t blame him. What had he known but loneliness? It gave him so little to hope for.

She knew riddles. This situation—the ghost, the necklace, the incomplete memories—had answers, and she was resolved to find them. If nothing else, maybe the answers would give Jon a reason to hope once more.

There were about six hours until sundown. She drove into town, grabbed coffee and a muffin, and headed for city hall. With a short wait and a bit of sweet talk, she found her way to the county clerk’s office where she asked for records on title deeds.

“And what is this for?” the clerk asked crosswise.

She gave him her best smile. “I write for the R’hllor Journal. I just moved into town, and I wanted to do a piece on the history of some of these _beautiful_ old homes. Problem is, I’d need to contact an owner to ask permission.”

He perked up immediately as she hoped he would. “My wife reads that one, I think. Might that have any effect on the tourism around here?”

“Some of our subscribers are a little fanatical,” she joked, and he laughed with her. Then she leaned in, dropping her voice with a tone of conspiracy. “Karhold County is the North’s best kept secret. I just wanted to share the secret, is all.”

The clerk nodded obligingly and led her to a file room.

She flipped through records and found the recent purchase she’d made of the cabin on Wolfsway. She’d bought it from the county, who took possession of the cabin, as well as lot #1217 in 1986.

The file cabinets went back by year, but they weren’t labeled. She opened drawers and checked dates until she got to correct one.

In 1986 the county obtained the lot from a Daenerys Targaryen. She bought the cabin and land parcel #121 back in…1903.

“Old broad,” Sansa muttered, and took a picture of the document.

The files here didn’t go back that far. She’d have to check somewhere else to connect the cabin to Jon.

Sansa thanked the clerk for his help and went to her car. She looked up where abstract property titles were kept, then searched the name Daenerys Targaryen.

As a fairly uncommon name, it only pulled a few results. A Daenerys S. Targaryen was born on Dragonstone Island in 1875 and died in Karhold county with no surviving family in 1986. _Old broad indeed_. Next to a short paragraph on her philanthropy was an old picture of a beautiful blonde in a fancy gown.

Would this woman be familiar to Jon? A sickness pooled in her belly at the thought. Sansa knew that she couldn’t reasonably feel jealous of a woman long since dead, but she didn’t enjoy picturing the life he might have had with her. What stung more, imagining the life he had lost. What cruelty had robbed this man of the life he deserved? Perhaps the same kind of cruelty that stole two parents from their five children.

Next Sansa drove to the courthouse on the square. The crumbling building—practically a castle—was ancient, as boasted by a historical plaque. She scanned the directory in the foyer and learned that records were stored in the basement.

From where she stood, the marble steps only went upwards. She wandered down a few halls until she spied an old stone staircase, spiraling into the ground. It was blocked off by a gate that reached about to her waist.

Sansa glanced around herself and pretended to inspect an old mural. Once the hall was empty, she made for the stairs and clambered over the gate.

The basement’s motion activated lights flickered on. She hopped over a metal chain at the bottom of the steps and explored the hallway.

Thick oak doors lined the walls. She opened the ones that were unlocked and peered inside with her phone’s flashlight. A few of the rooms were empty. One room, cavernous, held an assembly of massive chairs, the walls adorned with mottled tapestries.

Across from this, Sansa found a room full of archives. She took her flashlight and commenced the search. The cabinets creaked with disuse, the file drawers a fine collection of dust and cobwebs.

Two papercuts and one rat incident later, she found abstract property titles. Once she found the correct year, she discovered that Daenerys bought land parcel #121 upon the death of its previous owner…Jon S. He was bequeathed the parcel in 1895 by Robert S.

She took pictures of everything she found, then booked it out of the dungeon.

Climbing up the steps once more, Sansa nearly froze to find a crowd of strangers on the main floor. A few people looked her way as she climbed over the gate, clearly trespassing. She kept her head down and made for the foyer, but a hand caught at her shoulder. She tried to shake herself free and turned back to see a familiar scarred face.

“Do I know you?” he asked.

She shook her head, then ran.

When she finally made it back outside, covered in grime, the sun had already set.

***

Jon swept the house twice before accepting that Sansa was gone. He’d told her to leave, but the isolation pained him all the same.

Her arrival those weeks ago had awoken a humanity inside of him which he’d long since forgotten. He was a feeling, sensing thing, whose constant state of coldness could give way to warmth. Without the juxtaposition, his lonely sensations leveled out into nothingness.

If his solitude was purgatory then her company was paradise. Worse than purgatory, a life devoid of her now felt like a hell he had no choice but to endure.

In the time since Sansa had entered his life, she had brought him comfort…pleasure…love. Who couldn’t love Sansa’s kind beauty, her delicate strength? Such a woman deserved more than this half-life with him. His meager offerings, his words and his heart, would never do. She needed a man of substance—literally.

To love her wasn’t his design. Initially, her presence brought curiosity. Then hope. Within a week of making her acquaintance, though, he was overwhelmed by a feeling too precious to name.

He could almost be glad she’d escaped him, if her belongings didn’t remain to keep her fresh in his mind. She must intend to return during the day to retrieve them.

He stared at the photograph on the mantle. In it she smiled, surrounded by her loved ones. He hoped she would at least leave him this image of her.

In the closet her dresses hung neatly. He fingered the fabric, wondering at the risqué hemlines. Did all women from her time dress thusly?

It didn’t matter. Not only would his question remain unanswered, but it also meant nothing to him what any other woman did. None of them were Sansa. She regularly wore bed clothes around him, flimsy trousers and soft blouses, but nothing compared to the first night she’d arrived.

When she’d flounced around the cabin, her naked body dripping wet, Jon remembered what desire felt like. More than warmth, he _burned_ at her shameless splendor. So shocked was he at her state that he gaped unreservedly.

Then he realized she sought terry linens. It seemed a sin to hide away such glory, but the woman looked cold. And it finally occurred to him that she was wholly unaware of her audience. He couldn’t recall rules of etiquette but, well, it seemed wrong to take in a sight which was unknowingly given.

Outside he heard a noise, a metallic slam. Then the front door burst open.

“Jon!”

_Sansa._

He met her in the living room. The need to sweep her into his arms struck him with a painful intensity.

“You’re back.”

She locked the door and pulled her coat off, setting it in the armchair.

“I told you I wouldn’t leave. I had to go into town today.”

He frowned. “Is it safe for you to be out past dark?”

Color stained high on her cheeks, and he thought it might be due to temperature. Sansa tucked loose strands of that shiny copper hair behind her ears, avoiding eye contact.

“I was safe. I’m sorry if I worried you.”

“Not at all,” he said, and gulped. “You went into town?”

“Yes! I did some research on previous owners of the house.”

Her voice held that tone of excitement that meant she’d found something. He waited for her to continue, knowing she would.

“And I learned the year of your death.”

Jon nodded, unsure how else to respond. His face must’ve given him away, as she moved toward him now. Her hand reached up as if to touch him and paused midair, then dropped back down to her side. There was more she wanted to say.

“Have you eaten?”

“I should,” she said, and made to step around him.

He got in her way. “You should rest. Let me prepare you something, please?”

Sansa considered him for a moment, then a shy smile bloomed upon her face.

“Alright. I’ll go get cleaned up.”

For the first time he noticed the debris on her clothes. She wore it well.

He went to the kitchen and leaned against the counter, the relief at her reappearance still rolling through him. From behind the closed door, he heard water running in the bathroom. After a few minutes the faint sound of her singing met his ears.

Jon emptied a can of soup into a cup, as he’d seen her do many times. He shut the door to the humming box, pushed the two-minute button, and the timer began. He started to butter a slice of bread, but the task required a more dexterous hand than his own. He folded the bread in half and hoped it would suffice when she emerged.

Her skin was glowing pink, hair darkened by the water to the color of blood. She looked a might more comfortable than before, her eyes softer. Her thick shirt looked warm, but her britches…they ended just above the knee, her long legs bare and giving him all kinds of improper ideas.

The box chirped. She extracted her soup and sat at the table.

“Thanks.”

“It’s no trouble.”

Sansa’s manner of eating enthralled him. She always pushed food into her mouth with her thumb, pulling it out clean. After each drink, her little tongue would dart out to clean her lips. He tried to be discreet with his staring, but sometimes she caught him and made a disapproving face. He had no memory of eating, but she made every meal seem delectable.

He wondered what she tasted like. What her skin truly felt like, smooth and soft as it looked over the elegant curves of her bones. He cleared his throat, willing such thoughts away.

“So how long have I been dead?”

She took a deep breath, hiding her face into the soup.

“Over a century.”

_That long?_

He supposed it didn’t matter. What was a century to someone with no memory? Still, it felt as if he were a stranger to the world, put away in this wooden box and forgotten. Had he lived to be an old man he would have died by now, anyway.

There had never been a chance for him to have her. His natural life and his supernatural one, both, opposed their match. Yet he couldn’t help wanting her. Perhaps this was his true curse—not an early death or an unseen existence, but to know his ideal mate and never be able to have a life with her.

“Are you alright?”

He nodded.

“After you died a woman took ownership of the property. I think you must have known her.” Sansa chewed the inside of her mouth in a nervous gesture. She pulled out her little rectangle—her _phone_—and thumbed at it for a few seconds. “Daenerys Targaryen. Does she look familiar?” she asked, turning an image toward him.

***

Jon knocked the phone from her hand. It bounced off the table and to the floor. Sansa retrieved it, checking the screen for cracks. She looked back at him to find his face contorted. It was strange to see him so, those full lips pressed into a hard line.

“Jon?” she tried, afraid she’d done something wrong.

He shook his head, gray eyes full of steel.

_I shouldn’t have done this_.

Perhaps she’d grown too familiar, trying to put herself where she didn’t belong. Jon’s past belonged to himself alone. What right did she have to go digging around in it? In bringing it up like this, she’d clearly caused him pain. Whoever this woman was, she must have been important to him. Sansa stood, her eyes stinging.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…she was very beautiful.”

He frowned up at her. “Who?”

She sighed. “Daenerys.”

“Don’t say that name!”

He sounded defensive. She turned around, her eyes flooding.

_He loved her. He must have, to react in such a way_.

It was absurd. Jon wasn’t hers, could never be meant for her when she only knew him in his death. But this fierce possessiveness keened within her, devastated that the mere mention of another woman should drive such a wedge between them.

How could she have fallen for a dead man?

_Stupid, stupid girl._

Her shoulders curled inward. She tried not to make a sound, but a miserable squeak worked its way past her throat.

“Are you crying?”

She strode to the bedroom and shut him out.

“Sansa?” he called through the door.

She didn’t trust herself to speak. Jon didn’t owe her his pity, and she didn’t want it, regardless. She just wanted to grieve him. She sunk onto her bed.

“I didn’t mean to speak harshly before.”

And now he felt guilty for upsetting her because she was doing _such_ a good job of hiding it. Christ, this was a mess.

“I understand,” she croaked. “It wasn’t my place to bring her up.”

“Your place? Sansa, _please_ come out so we can talk. I’m afraid there’s been a misunderstanding.”

“I’m fine, really.”

She heard a thud, as if he’d hit the door.

“Dammit, hasn’t that woman taken enough from me?”

She scoffed. “_What_ woman? You don’t mean me?”

“Of course not! All you’ve done is give. I’m talking about the Widow Witch.”

“The…” she blinked. “Daenerys?”

Jon moved past the door and sunk to his knees before her, his gaze soft. “Please don’t speak her name, darling. I don’t want her to touch you. Not her name or her image or her evil words.”

_Evil words_? Fat tears dropped from her eyes.

“You mean you don’t—you didn’t love her?”

He shook his head. “When you showed me her picture I knew she’d done this to me.”

“She killed you?” she asked, wiping at her face.

“No,” Jon said, and raised his hand to see that he’d caught one of her tears. “I’m not sure what happened. But I know that she cursed me.”

“You said she was a witch?”

“Mmm.”

He brought his knuckle to his mouth and licked the tear away. The sight of his tongue set off a delicious twist deep in her belly. She tried to think past it.

“Would she have written this…this curse down somewhere?”

“Probably.” He looked up at her now with wide-eyed solemnity and reached up as if to brush her hair back. It felt like a cold breeze on her neck. “I know that you make your own rules, and I so admire that. But please let the witch alone.”

All traces of jealousy having faded, Sansa only felt rage on his behalf. “What more can she do to you, Jon?”

“She can hurt you!” He took on that same expression as before, only now she could put a name to it. Jon was _afraid_. “I couldn’t—I can’t,” he sighed. “I need you to be safe.”

Her chest felt tight.

“She’s long dead, Jon,” she whispered. “She can’t hurt me.”

“Please don’t go looking for trouble,” he begged. “Not on my account.”

He didn’t think himself worth a little trouble. That nearly broke her heart. She wasn’t afraid, but she nodded to appease him.

“I don’t know if you’ve realized, but trouble seems to find me whether I go looking for it or not.”

His head tilted back as he regarded her. “Meaning?”

“Of all the homes I chose this one,” she said dryly.

His mouth twitched. “I suppose that’s bad luck.”

“I came here to get away from trouble,” she added, not sure what made her speak.

Curiosity flickered in his eyes, though he wouldn’t press her. Sansa patted her mattress to invite him up. He joined her and they sat cross legged, his knees fading into her own. She started with the man she’d seen earlier that day—Sandor. She told Jon of her suspicion that he’d been sent to look for her. She shared everything, more than she’d shared with any of her siblings on the matter.

How, when she was eighteen and her parents died, she’d gotten a crumby job with the Lannister Publishing House. How Joffrey, the heir apparent of the company, had given her special attention that made her feel like her life hadn’t quite ended. How he’d waited a year until pursuing a relationship with her, making her feel like she needed his approval. How he’d waited another year before he began abusing her.

Jon understood. He understood how vulnerable she’d felt at the time, and how badly she’d needed the support of another person. Her friends were all moving on with their lives after graduation, and she and Robb had run themselves ragged keeping their family together, supporting their siblings as best they could. He understood that she couldn’t quit her job to get away from Joffrey, and she couldn’t get away from Joffrey without jeopardizing the income that fed their family.

“It was difficult to believe that there were still kind men in the world. That all my romantic ideas weren’t idiotic.”

“Any man who would treat you thusly is unworthy of you,” Jon told her.

He brushed her calves through the bedsheet she’d tunneled under. She nodded.

“I know that. Logically I understand that the fault was with him. But a bitter voice in my head asks…if I could place my trust in such a person, did I somehow deserve his treatment of me?”

“_Sansa_.”

Jon lifted the sheet from her lap and used it to bracket her face with his hands. She shuddered under his gentle weight.

“The only violence you deserve is a violent joy—the kind that makes your bones ache. The only way you should be touched is with love.”

“You’re touching me,” she breathed.

His eyes grew tender. She wanted to ask if that meant _he_ loved her, but she was too afraid to hear his answer. Instead she wiggled free of his hands, pulled the sheet up to Jon’s face. She covered his mouth.

He leaned forward to meet Sansa’s kiss. Even through the cotton she could feel the fullness of his lips. He groaned into her mouth, sending a trail of fire down her spine.

She pulled back slowly. They were both panting, and Jon’s eyes had darkened. She wondered just how improper he would think her if she asked him to watch her touch herself…another night, maybe. It was getting late.

“What do you do when I go to sleep?”

He shrugged. “Sometimes I read.”

She’d been stricken before with the idea of introducing him to modern technology. Gradually, she’d shown him some functions of her phone. He couldn’t use the touch screen, as it was sensitive to temperature, but they’d flipped through some pictures she had of her family. He’d seen her text Arya a few times, as well, amazed by instant messaging.

He couldn’t play with her phone on his own, but he could learn to type. Her keyboard used the same QWERTY formation of keys that typewriters used around the time of his life. She pulled out her laptop, mindful of the first movie watchers running from the train.

“Now I have to warn you; I’m going to show you a moving picture. It’s very lifelike, but it is only a series of images on a screen…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A fluffy chapter ending for my readers. So what do you think, will Sansa "let the witch alone"?


	5. The Companion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa does more digging...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was initially going to have more scenes, but the length was getting a little out of hand so I decided to split it up--it flows a bit better this way, too.  
We cover a lot of ground here, so I hope you're ready!  
More fluff (and smut) to come, I promise.  
Hope you enjoy <3

Sansa spent the first part of her day turning in a thousand words to her editor. It was choppy, but her mind was too hung up on other matters.

Last night they’d watched _Little Women_. It was one of her books which Jon had recently read, and the setting was somewhat familiar to him. She didn’t want to thrust him into the world of, say, _Star Wars_ just yet. She was half afraid of what he’d gotten up to after she’d fallen asleep—modern internet was a powerful tool to acquire so suddenly.

Her curiosity got the best of her.

There was a search for ‘modern history’, then he’d gone to a Wikipedia page on the modern age. After that he’d apparently watched four episodes of _Modern Family_. She tried to picture his reaction to the show and giggled. Finally, he’d searched the phrase ‘i love her’, and gone to an article titled “Things to Say to the Woman You Love”.

She stared blankly for several minutes.

Flutters assaulted her body. It was as if butterflies had been released inside her belly, her chest. She closed the browser and went to the bathroom to find a funny little smile stuck on her face.

If Jon could touch her, she would let him. Of all the things she’d learned to fear, his touch was not one of them.

Her parents’ death had taught her to fear love, and maybe that was one of the reasons why she’d settled for Joffrey in the beginning. He could be charming when he wished to be, but he made himself difficult to love. Losing him would be no great loss.

Losing Jon, however…after so short a time, she knew _that_ pain would be bitter. Maybe it was safer this way, with his soul inhabiting the cabin. Such a vessel was not so easily broken.

She stared at her reflection in horror. How selfish would it be to condemn Jon just to assuage her own fears? After all, she would die one day. Even if she never left this cabin again, he would eventually be alone once more.

And didn’t he deserve a body? The ability to explore the world, and follow his heart? Even if his heart led him away—if he left her one day without word—she wanted him to have that choice. It was better than keeping him trapped, asking him to suffer. So long as Jon was confined, they would both rot away here. Because she couldn’t find it in herself to leave him.

She spent a few hours looking through an online database until she found the witch’s will. With no relatives, she’d donated larger things to charities or the county and had the rest of her possessions buried with her.

It was unlikely that the witch’s spellbook had been donated. If such a thing existed—and Jon’s state was undeniable proof that it just might—it would be with the owner.

Another search gave her the cemetery the witch was buried in. Though the witch didn’t deserve her respect, Sansa would try not to disturb the remains. She dressed in black (the color of protection, apparently) and headed out. She couldn’t go digging it up in broad daylight, but the grave would be harder to find in the dark.

Or so she thought.

Upon her arrival she spied a mausoleum of black granite, strange and imposing in an otherwise gray cemetery. She walked through the rows, setting right some flowers which had been blown over by the breeze. The mausoleum towered over its surrounding headstones, two columns of black dragons decorating its face. As she got closer, she made out the name _Targaryen_ scrawled across the top.

The double doors opened heavily. It was dark inside, a dim light filtering in through the dragonglass windows lining the walls. A circular symbol, like a three-headed dragon, covered the floor. Around it was carved the phrase ‘Fire and Blood’.

Sansa shuddered.

Only three crypts lay in the structure, sealed over by brick. She observed each one, trying to distinguish the witch’s crypt from the others, when a stone tile slid from beneath her foot.

She knelt on the ground, accruing dirt upon her knees, and pulled the tile up. A small compartment lay beneath. She used her phone’s flashlight to peer down.

Cobwebs obscured a wooden box. She pulled her sleeves over her hands to reach down and tried not to think of her wolf spider allergy. The box came up with little fight. It contained a few trinkets—a silver dragon brooch, a whip with a harpy handle. She dug at the bottom, her fingers scraping around the edges of a cloth. Using her fingernails, Sansa pried a rectangle from the box and unwrapped the protective cloth.

A book fell into her lap, the cover inlaid with beetle wings.

_The spellbook._

She turned it over carefully. There was no writing on the outside, the pages latched shut.

Before her luck could turn, she replaced the box in its burial place and fled the mausoleum. Down the steps and through the rows again, Sansa ran until the dirt gave beneath her shoes. She yelped.

One of her legs was sunk in a hole, knee deep.

A collapsing grave lay in the middle of the aisle, unmarked and running from North to South. She didn’t know much about superstition, but she knew that graves were meant to lay West to East.

Sansa regained her balance and jerked her leg free, shaking the dirt from her shoe. The spellbook clutched in her arms, she hastened to her car and floored it back to the cabin.

The book on the kitchen table, she rooted around for something to open the latch. Both her pen and metal nail file broke in the attempt. Finally, she found the hammer Robb had left. It took a few pulls with the claw side, but eventually the latch snapped.

Instantaneously, the book caught fire.

Sansa jumped back as the flame spread to her table. Then instinct bid her to grab the fire extinguisher from beneath the sink. She fumbled with the pin with shaking hands, pointed, and squeezed.

A powder chemical coated the flames. They died down, leaving her table slightly toasted and covered in a white residue. It took half an hour to clean up.

After the fire incident, Sansa pulled her hair back and kept a package of baking powder handy. If the witch wanted to play, she could play.

She sat again and opened the book.

The first page held the symbol from the mausoleum, a red dragon on a black background. She flipped the withered pages with charred edges, not recognizing the writing. The characters weren’t of Old Tongue, High Valyrian, or YiTish. She searched for different alphabets on her phone, but didn’t find much. Some illustrations, at least, looked familiar—triple spirals, moons, pentagrams, wheels.

Halfway through, the book switched to High Valyrian. It was also written in reddish brown stains. Sansa swallowed at that. She became even more careful to turn the pages at the corners.

A page with two entries bore some symbols she understood. A circle with a crescent moon for ‘man’ and a wheel for ‘time’.

She typed the entries into her phone, writing out the translation in a spare notebook.

_Spirit:_

_You may not touch what is mine_

_Sight alone would be too kind_

_Spirit and flesh shall be unbound_

_‘Til the Lover’s grave is found_

_When Spirit bends unto my will_

_By his hand Lover’s blood must spill._

_The Companion:_

_The event of my death shall beget_

_Spirit’s memories to forget_

_The Companion’s call alone restores_

_The knowledge of his fate once more._

‘Spirit’ was Jon, it had to be. Spirit and flesh were unbound—Jon was separated from his body—until the Lover…died? Who was the ‘Lover’? And the other passage spoke of forgotten memories. The knowledge of his fate was restored with the Companion’s call. Another mystery figure.

She was bent over the page, underlining phrases and drawing arrows, when Jon appeared before her.

“What’s this?”

Sansa slammed the book shut.

“Nothing. How are you?”

His eyes met hers, a little confused but warm, nonetheless. His smile was gentle.

“I’m happy to see you.”

She flushed. He reminded her to eat, as he always did. She ushered him to the living room and ordered takeout.

“How was your day?”

“Good,” she said. “I got some writing done.”

His eyebrows went up. “Could I read it?”

She shook her head, embarrassed. “I don’t think you’d find any interest in it.”

“I’d be interested in anything you write,” he murmured.

Another flush spread down her neck. His words reminded her of the search history on her laptop.

“So what did you get up to on your own last night?”

Jon cleared his throat. “I watched a few…episodes, as they’re called, of a picture called _Modern Family._”

“And how did you like it?”

He nodded thoughtfully. “The depiction of modern life was strange to me, but the characters were charming.”

She grinned. “That show is a situational comedy. For each episode, the characters find themselves in amusing situations.”

“I gathered that.”

“Were you overwhelmed?” She was worried that so much change was too much for him all at once. He didn’t answer, and the fear reared up in her mind. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. Darling, I’m so thankful for you.” She peeked over at him. He took a pen from the coffee table and used it to brush her hair behind her ear. “Not only have you given me companionship, you’ve also tried to break these walls down. You’ve shared your world with me, and for that you need never apologize.”

“I wish I could do more,” she breathed.

He shrugged those broad shoulders. “What’s more than the generosity you’ve already bestowed?”

Sansa licked her lips. He’d specifically asked her to leave it alone, but she hoped he would understand why she couldn’t.

“About that…”

***

“Why would you do that?”

“To help you.”

“_Sansa—”_

Lights flashed through the window then. She held a finger up to him and went to retrieve something from her bag. A stranger knocked on the door, and she traded money for a clear sack of food before bidding him good night.

Jon watched this reckless woman, the woman he loved, move into the kitchen with her dinner in tow. He stood to follow her.

She’d emptied the contents of her sack onto the table and now reached for some papers.

“I found the curse she used on you,” Sansa said, her voice gentle but firm. “Now that we know the curse, we can figure out a way to reverse it.”

“If there is a way,” he protested.

She shook her head, those blue eyes igniting. “I understand why you don’t want to get your hopes up, Jon. But nothing you say will stop me from trying.”

There wasn’t a thing about her he’d change. This wonderful stubbornness, though, would get her killed. Why didn’t she understand that? Did she truly think so little of her life that she would risk it so frivolously? He stared down and noticed dark marks on the wood.

“What happened to the table?”

She lifted her chin a fraction. “I took care of it.”

He gave her a sharp look, full of reproach. “This is _dangerous_, Sansa.”

“I’m not a fool,” she snapped. “Of course it’s dangerous—you were harmed. Your body was taken from you, and I intend to get it back. I’m not afraid.”

“But I am!” he said, unable to stop the words from bursting with volume. “If I have to live like this forever, then so be it. You’re too important to risk.”

“You’re important, too!” she yelled. Her chest rose and fell with her pants of breath. Her eyes dropped to his lips, then returned to his once more. They stared at each other with desperation. “You’re important to me.”

_Could she care for me as I do for her?_

It seemed absurd. This divine figure, radiant with life, shouldn’t be spending her time with an old corpse. _If_ she found his body—and that was an immense if—how could it possibly appeal to her? The most he could hope for was to be at her side always, protecting her and offering his friendship.

“Who is the Companion?”

He blinked. She stared at a piece of paper covered in neat ink, her copper head bent forward as if in prayer.

“Pardon?”

“The Companion. I think this person is supposed to restore your memories.”

­_Not a person_, he thought.

His gaze dropped to the silver wolf dangling from around her neck. The coin winked in the light, somehow familiar.

He howled.

Sansa jumped in her seat at the sound. It filled the night, long and mournful. As the howl died from his lips, another howl called back in answer. Jon’s eyes rolled back into his head.

_“I’ll love you forever, sweet girl.”_

_Sansa smiled at him. The summer sun glowed in her locks, tangled by the wind even though she’d brushed them out that morning. They sat together under the giant weirwood tree on her Pa’s land and shared the blackberries gathered in her skirt, picked from an obliging thicket._

_“‘Til the day you die?” she whispered._

_Jon leaned down so they shared their breath. “Even after.”_

_She licked her lips, stained with berries. At fourteen, he’d never met a prettier girl than his little cousin. He’d never wanted to kiss another girl, neither. As if she could hear his thoughts, she tilted her face up toward his and closed her eyes._

_Her mouth tasted sweet. He felt her hands in his shirt, tugging him closer. He licked the seam of her lips and a soft sigh broke away from her. It rattled his heart inside its cage. He pulled back to see those blue eyes glossed over._

_“Pretty soon other boys will come calling, wanting to court you.”_

_Sansa laughed at him. “You think so?”_

_She was only twelve, after all. But most fellas wouldn’t wait long for a girl as pretty as her. He imagined she could have a beau as soon as two years from now if she wanted._

_“I know it,” Jon said. “But I don’t want you to pay them any mind.”_

_“Why not?” she asked determinedly._

_He picked at some yellow weeds by his feet. “One day, Sansa, I’m gonna build you a house. Then I’m gonna make you my wife.”_

_A pretty pink trailed down the column of her throat and to the edge of her frock._

_“You gonna marry me for my ma’s God or my pa’s gods?”_

_Auntie Cat was raised a Christian back east—she called her husband’s gods pagan. Uncle Ned wasn’t no pagan, he just believed in nature’s power to find a balance, to set things to right._

_Jon just shrugged. “Doesn’t matter, so long as we’re together.”_

_She looked up from the dandelion chain she’d started making. “Alright then.”_

_It was a simple oath, but they both knew she wouldn’t break it. He watched her long fingers braid stems together. When she finished the chain she lay it in his curls. He wanted to kiss her again, started to lean down to capture those sweet lips._

_“Boo!” Robb hollered, and jumped out from behind the tree. “What’re you two doing? Trying to decide who’s prettiest?”_

_Jon shook the weeds from his hair with a scowl, sending Sansa into a fit of giggles…_

_“I know they had something to do with it,” Robb said, fierce._

_Jon sat with him by the hearth, sharing a whiskey after the double funeral they’d attended. Sansa was in their Uncle Benjen’s spare room, as she’d been all week._

_“The Targaryens?”_

_Robb nodded. “Something about Viserys and his sister doesn’t sit well with me.”_

_“There is a certain pugnacity to them which can’t be ignored,” Jon said. “Though I don’t think we’ll find any proof that they were involved with your parents’ deaths.”_

_“I don’t want to sic the law on them, I want to avenge my family.”_

_It was the same he’d been saying since the accident. They both knew the fire that had claimed the Stark home was no accident. Viserys had been trying to buy Ned’s land ever since he stepped foot in the North. And a nasty rumor followed the Targaryens—they loved to play with fire._

_“That wasn’t your father’s way, and you know it.”_

_“Much good it did him,” Robb muttered, and his face crumpled. “I didn’t mean that. I’m just…”_

_“You’re angry,” Jon supplied. “I’m angry. You think I want those people coming after you next? Or your sister?”_

_The very thought sent a spark of rage through his bones. If they even came near her…he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from doing a little vengeance._

_“You need to take her away from here,” Robb said. Jon focused again, held onto those words. “Get her away from those people and keep her safe.”_

_She wouldn’t like it. Sansa would want to stay near her parents’ graves, with her brother and uncle. But they’d fare better knowing she wasn’t in danger. Jon nodded._

_“I’ll protect her, I promise.”_

_“You’re the only one I trust with her.” Robb finished his drink and wiped his eyes…_

_Ghost stayed with Sansa at the cabin, watching over her while Jon met with Daenerys. Recently widowed, the witch was alone in the world now. She claimed to desire an armistice between their families, and he couldn’t put his faith in letters. They’d meet in the woods, on neutral ground._

_Daenerys stood but five feet from the brush, her black cloak stitched with red beads and her silver hair in a tight braid. He’d once pitied her, particularly when they heard that Viserys had forced her into an unwanted marriage. Since that marriage, she’d blossomed into a blood witch. No longer an unknown flower, Daenerys was a poisonous bloom which needed to be avoided at all costs._

_And now Robb was dead._

_“I had nothing to do with it,” Daenerys said. “That was all my brother, and he’s gone now.”_

_“I thought you despised your brother,” he said carefully._

_She pursed her lips. “I know he wasn’t a good man, but he was my only family.” She eyed him in that way she’d done before. As if he were a fancy silk she’d like to wear. “You’re a good man, though.”_

_His mouth tensed. “You don’t know me.”_

_“I know you want peace,” she refuted. “You wouldn’t have come here otherwise.”_

_She waited for him to respond, but he wouldn’t. She’d called this meeting. It was up to her to make a point. Sansa was heartbroken at the loss of her brother, and he didn’t want to be away from her side any longer than he could help it._

_“As I said, I’ve no family left," she said. Jon bent his head in respect to her grief. She took a step toward him. “There could be peace if you’d give me a family.”_

_He frowned. “I don’t understand,” he said, though he feared that he understood her perfectly._

_“What better way to secure an alliance than with a marriage?” she asked. “If I am to have children, they shall be born of old blood—the Starks are just as old a family as the Targaryens.”_

_Jon shook his head now. He daren’t refuse the witch, but in this he had no choice. “I cannot.”_

_Her head tilted with some amusement as she stepped closer. “Surely you could. Look me in the eye and tell me you do not find me attractive.”_

_In truth, he found her violet eyes strange. He looked into them now so she would not mistake him again._

_“I love another.”_

_She blinked. A small scoff of disbelief filled the space between them. Jon gulped, gave a little nod. Daenerys regained her composure. Her lips curled at the corners in a way that curdled his blood._

_“For now,” she said…_

***

When Jon’s howl was echoed back to him, he went stiff as a board and hit the floor.

“Jon!”

Sansa fell to her knees beside him. A boom of thunder sounded, so close to the house that it made her jump. He didn’t move, eyes shut. It began pouring buckets outside and she only watched him. She couldn’t even check his pulse—not that she was certain he had a pulse to begin with.

A few minutes passed when she heard a scratching at the door. She ignored it at first, frozen beside her ghost. She’d never seen him lay so still. Surely he wasn’t…passing on…was he?

The scratching at the door grew louder. Then came an insistent _thud_.

She scampered to the living room and checked through the blinds, but she couldn’t see anyone. No car had pulled up. A crack of lightning lit the yard, and through the rain she made out a flash of white.

_Is that…?_

Her mother would have bid her not to. Sane Sansa would have called it dangerous. But they’d heard a wolf’s call just before this change came upon Jon.

She opened the door, and a great white wolf entered her home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this was a lot of plot, but I hope you enjoyed it all the same.  
The flashbacks were hard to write--sweet, then sour.  
Do we feel better now that Ghost is around?


	6. The Lover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ghost exhibits some strange behavior. Sansa receives an unwelcome visitor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had to cut this off here because it was getting much longer than my usual chapters.  
I hope you enjoy this one <3  
Sansa sure does (;

Jon opened his eyes. Sansa knelt at his one side, Ghost tucked into the other. She watched the wolf warily, as if she were going to kick him if he bared his teeth.

_I’ve missed you_, he thought. But he’d seen Sansa every night for the past two months. _She isn’t dead, she isn’t dead, she isn’t…_

She wore long sleeves and pants in matching black as if she mourned someone. Her rounded nails were painted from that tan bottle she liked labeled ‘sandstone’. And she worried her full bottom lip between her teeth, still eyeing Ghost as if he were a stranger.

“He won’t hurt you.”

She gasped, meant to touch him but her hands drove through his chest instead. There was such worry on her face. Worry he’d never wanted to see.

“I’m so sorry, love.”

“Jon?”

He tried to give her a smile, but it didn’t come out right. He was so relieved to see her again, but so scared of what she might do.

Ghost nuzzled at his arm. He could _feel_ it.

Jon sat up, worried that his wolf was dead, too. But he couldn’t be. His fur dripped, and he’d tracked prints on the floor with his muddied paws.

“Friend of yours?” Sansa asked.

He stroked his muzzle. “This is Ghost.”

“Are you being funny?”

It struck him now, the humor of it. Ghost licked his palm.

“He was ours a long time ago,” Jon said.

“Ours?” she leaned back on her heels. “Do you know who I am?”

“Yes, Sansa. I remember you now.”

She looked at him sideways. He knew he would have to explain things to her—she deserved that, at the very least. But if he told her how to break the curse, would she hurt herself again? He didn’t think he could bear it. Not again. Not when he’d just gotten her back.

This Sansa was different, though. In this time, she had chosen to live alone. She had permission to put herself first. And she still had Robb. This Sansa had something to live for.

“I’m sorry he’s making a mess,” he said.

“That’s okay. I can—do you think he’d let me clean him?” she asked. He nodded. “How do you feel?”

Jon rose to his feet, unsure of the true answer but sensitive to her fears. “You’re here. I’ll be just fine.”

“Okay.”

Sansa waited, but didn’t push him to say more. He was grateful. After some quiet she went to the restroom and began filling the bathtub. Ghost padded after her.

He wiped the floor clean of mud, trying to process it all. But when he thought about it too much he panicked. When he finished the task he found himself by her side again, watching Ghost cling to his dignity while she scrubbed him down with bubbles.

In a way, robbing his memories had been a kindness. You couldn’t miss loved ones if you didn’t remember them. But the witch had stolen his humanity, too. Sansa was as much a part of him as breath was a part of his lungs. Without love, he was a shriveled thing robbed of purpose.

“Who’s a good boy?” she asked in a high tone.

Jon couldn’t help but smile then, and some of the tightness in his chest receded.

The wolf leapt from the tub and shook his body out, flinging water in every direction. She laughed, her clothing soaked through. Once she changed into her sleep wear, they sat in the living room together. Her food was cold, but she didn’t mind. Ghost lay on the rug before the fire.

“My memories have returned,” he began.

“I figured as much.”

Of course she knew; she was too intelligent for her own good.

“I don’t want to frighten you.”

She gave him a look of reproach. “Whatever it is, I can handle it.”

He nodded, but still waited for her to finish her meal. When she set the empty container aside, she folded her hands together so he would commence.

“There’s a reason why we were drawn together,” he said. Her brow furrowed, creating a little line of tension in the middle. “We’ve been together before. In the past. My past.” Her eyes went round, but she didn’t speak. “It’s why the witch cursed me. She asked me to give her a child, and I couldn’t. Because I love you.”

Sansa turned her face away, hiding her expression. Jon still saw the hunch of her shoulders, the way they shook. He’d give his last drop of blood to hold her then, this brave woman who didn’t like to be seen crying.

“Look at me love, _please._” She didn’t. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry to have pulled you into all this. I won’t let it touch you, I swear it. Do you hear me? Do you believe that I’ll protect you?”

Her head nodded. A gasp of air burst from her chest. He drew a blanket over her, wishing he could offer more comfort.

“Please, Sansa. You can cry in front of me.”

“You said you love me,” she rasped.

His mouth fell open in a silent laugh. “Surely you must know.”

“Are you sure?” she asked, and sniffled. “It’s not just residual feelings for a woman who had the same face?”

Before her, he’d been an abandoned creature. This new Sansa had chased away all his bitterness, filled his nights with wonder. He shook his head.

“I fell in love with you before I even knew who you were.”

The sweetest laugh bubbled up from somewhere inside of her.

“I couldn’t help it, either,” she said.

His chest was full to bursting. Had he ever felt so much as a man? He couldn’t say, but he knew he’d do anything for the woman before him. He groaned.

“I wish I could kiss you right now.”

Sansa shivered beneath her blanket as if she liked that notion. She smiled secretly to herself.

“Tomorrow? I might have an idea.”

His eyebrows quirked up in interest. _What kind of idea?_

“Tomorrow.”

***

Sansa stayed up with Jon watching more episodes. She paused the show whenever he had a question and tried to explain as best she could. She still wondered about his resurfaced memories, naturally. The last thing she wanted, though, was to force him into dwelling on his past. Tragedy had led him here, and he deserved the bliss of oblivion. So she distracted him as best she could.

The wolf, Ghost, sat in front of her door the next morning, waiting. She tried to walk past but he tripped her up, moving about her legs in circles and sniffing her endlessly. She’d never seen a wolf behave in such a silly manner.

“Excuse me sir,” she joked, “I require sustenance.”

Ghost sat back and let her pass.

Sansa shook her head at him then set about fixing breakfast. The beast hadn’t eaten since he’d arrived, and she feared that if she let him out to hunt he wouldn’t return. For herself she fixed pancakes, then shredded up pieces of cold chicken for Ghost. She’d have to stop by the market later to find venison or meat from another ungulate.

At the table she read over the curse again. The one they’d yet to break. When Ghost finished eating he came over and tugged her pant leg, nosed at her arm, anything to pull her attention away from her notebook.

“Are you bored?” she asked him.

He lay his muzzle in her lap and his eyes closed. She ran her fingers through his fur and marveled at the gentle presence of this wild creature.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

He nuzzled closer, sniffing at her belly. It tickled. She pushed her chair back so she could lean down.

“Heyyy,” she cooed, and held the wolf’s head in her hands. “Do you know that you’re handsome?”

Ghost gave her a wolfy grin, then swiped her face with his tongue. She giggled, wiping saliva from her chin.

“Thanks for that.” His head bobbed. “You won’t run off if I take you outside, will you?” As if demonstrating his obedience, Ghost sat with his back straight and closed his mouth. She narrowed her eyes at him. He blinked innocently. “Alright.”

She didn’t know how far she could trust a wolf’s manners. If he ran off in the woods, Jon would be heartbroken come nightfall. But the animal needed to stretch his legs and see to his needs.

Eventually, she decided to accompany him outside with what remained of the chicken to tempt him into staying close. She needn’t have worried. Ghost ran a lap around the house, sprinted through piles of leaves, and did his important canine business against a nearby tree.

Finished, he returned to Sansa’s side and brushed against her legs. She beamed, hunching down to pull leaves from his coat. He pressed his face into her throat with such vigor that she fell back on her ass. He whined, but calmed when she began laughing, tongue lolling from his mouth.

After they came inside, she gathered her things for a shower.

“Now,” she said, turning to the wolf, “you’ve been very good today. If you can sit here while I get clean, I may bring you into town with me.”

As if he understood her, Ghost stayed rooted to the spot.

In the shower, she asked herself a thousand questions. If Ghost was a part of their lives over a century ago, how was he still alive? If he’d been alone in the wilderness all that time, how was he so well behaved? With Jon’s memories restored, would he know how to break the curse? If she was…reincarnated, then how did she die before? On and on it went.

When she emerged from the bathroom, fully clothed, Ghost sat just where she’d left him. It was uncanny. She sighed.

“Okay. I will bring you to town with me but one,” she held up her index finger, “lupine incident and I’m bringing you back here on a leash. You got me?”

His head bobbed.

Sansa froze. She didn’t know much about wolves, but surely they didn’t nod. Maybe she was losing her common sense to the sublime, but _maybe_ this wolf could understand her. If she was wrong, it wasn’t as if the creature could tell anyone about this.

“Jon?”

Ghost’s panting ceased for a few seconds. Then he jumped up on his hind legs before trotting forward to lick at her knees.

She stared at the wall, comprehension eluding her.

How? _How?_

Jon would have to answer a few of her questions tonight. Not all of them, but a few.

He licked her fingers to regain her attention. She sat crisscross on the floor, peering into those red eyes. They held more intelligence than she could attribute to a wolf. He leaned in to sniff at her hair, and she pushed him back.

“Jon…are you…ready to go into town?”

He turned to walk through the living room and sat at the door.

If this was happening, she’d need more wine.

Her first stop was at the fabric store. _Ghost _loped along gracefully as she looked at different bolts, felt the textures. She finally settled on one and purchased three yards. The market did have venison, as well as seasonal produce and a decent wine selection. She opened the door to the back seat, and the wolf hopped inside without fuss.

Halfway back to the cabin, she switched the radio on and heard the gentle tones of Warren Zevon. She peeked back in the rearview, a sly grin spreading on her face as the chorus came.

“Aaooooo! Werewolves of London!”

His ears perked up. The second time around, to her endless delight, he joined her in howling.

She cleared the last stand of trees and pulled into the dirt drive of the cabin, noticing too late that another car was parked there. A car she knew, with a blonde behind the wheel.

_Lock the doors? Back up and drive away?_

Neither option would do much good. Joffrey stared at her already, that loathsome smirk twisting his mouth up. If she locked her doors he’d wait her out, and if she drove away he’d just follow her.

No. This was her home, and she wouldn’t be chased away. She would be safe inside. Safe with Jon. She pulled out her phone and started to call the police.

Ghost—or Jon, rather—snarled from the back. Could he smell her fear? It felt like an acrid thing in her chest, spreading through her limbs.

She knew why he was here. It had been a year since she’d rejected his proposal, but Joffrey was never the type to take no for an answer. He’d spent six months trying to change her mind, and when she finally gained the courage to break things off he decided to scare her into submission. He didn’t like dogs who bit back, which was exactly how he thought of her.

That was when she started looking for a new place to live, somewhere remote but not too far from her family. She should’ve known Joffrey would find a trail that led him to her. She should’ve taken her record of purchase from the county clerk’s office. How else had he found her address?

Joffrey got out of his car and walked over. She rolled her passenger window down a smidge, hoping he wouldn’t come around to the driver side. It worked. He leaned down to speak through the crack.

“Did you really think you could run away from me?”

She’d hoped to never hear that voice again.

“You send your hound after me?” she asked.

“Clegane said he saw you in town. Said you’d probably run away again before I got here.”

Because to someone with money running away was so easy. She shook her head stiffly. The wolf was tense behind her.

“No, I thought not,” Joffrey continued. “I think a part of you wanted to be found. Did you miss me, Sansa?”

The wolf growled. Joffrey looked back for the first time, cowardice filling his eyes. He glanced back at Sansa and chuckled, then knocked on the glass to antagonize Ghost.

“Go away,” she said.

Joffrey shook his head. “Or what?”

The doors were unlocked but he wouldn’t enter the car, not with the wolf. He wasn’t _that_ stupid. She steeled herself, took a deep breath.

Sansa threw her door open and jumped out. Joffrey moved around the car, but he wasn’t fast enough. She’d yanked the back door open, and the wolf leapt out with his teeth bared.

Joffrey slid to the ground and crawled backward. He screamed before the wolf’s jaws even closed around his leg. She heard the crunch of bone and made for the house. It took a few tries to unlock the door. Once inside, she called to Jon.

He released Joffrey’s leg and ran in the cabin. She slammed the door and locked it, then watched from the window. Joffrey scrambled in the dirt, blood soaking his pant leg and tears streaming down his face. He climbed inside his car and sped away.

She threw her arms around the wolf, ignoring the red stains in his fur.

***

Though he’d been able to touch, taste, and smell Sansa as the wolf Jon was relieved to be in his own form at dusk. He needed to speak with her now, to comfort her after the ordeal.

He would’ve killed that man if she hadn’t called out to him. Might’ve bitten his throat anyway, but there was such panic in her voice.

The second they arrived back at the cabin he knew something was wrong. An unfamiliar scent flowed from the new car, a scent he didn’t care for. And then he’d smelled Sansa’s fear. Her verbena soap was sharp and clean but fear sullied it, made it bitter. He _hated_ it.

The taste of the man’s blood cleared the haze from his mind.

After that, she’d held onto him for a time. When her arms stopped shaking she went to the kitchen and boiled water. He stayed close while she mixed in earthy and floral leaves, wrapping his tail around her legs and bumping her hip with his jaw.

When darkness fell Jon materialized across the room from them. Ghost turned around, and Sansa followed suit.

“Hi,” she said shyly.

“Hi.”

She laid venison out for Ghost and they sat at the table to let him eat.

“I’m glad you were there today.”

He nodded. “I am, as well. Ghost wouldn’t have stopped with a broken leg.”

She was quiet at that. Had his words upset her? Jon cursed himself. She swirled her tea around.

“I’m very confused about all that.”

“Of course.”

When he looked up she was eyeing him carefully.

“If you don’t want to talk about your past I understand. But don’t hold back for my sake. I have so many questions.”

“And you’re entitled to answers,” he said.

Her face softened. “Thank you, Jon. How is Ghost here if he was around back then?”

His head bent down as he tried to explain. “When you died, the witch…bound me to him. The curse remained unbroken because I refused her still. But if ever I changed my mind, if I gave in to loneliness, she wanted me to be able to seek her out. So she tethered my spirit to the wolf.”

“You said she wanted a child with you?”

Now he shrugged. “That’s what she claimed, at least. Once her brother died, she was alone. It was just the two of them.”

She nodded slowly, gulped in a deep breath. “Will you tell me how I died?”

What good could come of telling her that? It haunted him still, and he didn’t want to give her any ideas. But he couldn’t deny her.

“The nature of the curse, it…caused you to—to take your…”

“The Lover’s grave must be found?” she asked gently. “Did I try to free you by harming myself?”

Jon couldn’t speak past his throat. He shut his eyes to the burning sensation, but then he saw his old Sansa again. It must’ve been a century since she left this world.

“_I’m so sorry_.” Her voice was full of tears. “I won’t do that to you, Jon. I won’t leave you like that. I promise.”

He nodded. Now he could open his eyes again. Her lovely face was all sorrow. He wanted to bury his own in her throat, to clutch her to himself so he could know she was here. A secret voice punctured his sanity with the question: _What if this is her ghost? What if that’s why you can’t touch her?_

But she was alive—he’d seen her leave this place through the eyes of his companion. Sansa was here, and real, and she was a person all her own. He couldn’t put the burden of past mistakes upon her shoulders. She didn’t deserve his mistrust. His fears were the responsibility of another woman from another time.

“I believe you.”

She pulled the hem of her shirt up to dab at her eyes, then nodded. That little line formed between her brows, her gaze unfocused. She was piecing things together. He’d bet she could solve all the mysteries of the world if she were so inclined.

“What else, darling?”

Her eyes snapped back to him, and she shook her head with a gentle smile. “We can let it rest for now.”

“Very well. Are you hungry?”

Sansa washed a potato in the sink and wrapped it in a sheet of metal before placing it in the oven. When she sat down again they played a little game she’d showed him. They began by holding out their index fingers, then pointed. The number of fingers pointed were added to the hand gestured to. It was silly fun, but she took it very seriously. She spent minutes considering possible outcomes when it was her turn again. When she won she beamed with pride, but if she lost she would laugh good-naturedly.

They were at their ease in no time at all.

Ghost snoozed on the floor while she cut into her potato, dressing it with butter, cheese, and ham. Jon felt himself relax with every bite she took. She was safe. If there was any good in the world, she would remain that way. When she finished, he took her dishes to the basin and rinsed them.

“Did you buy fabric today?” he asked, recalling the store they’d visited.

“Satin.”

“What for?”

She didn’t answer immediately. He turned back to see a lovely blush staining her cheeks. Where before he’d merely been curious, he now _ached_ to know her intention.

“I told you I had an idea,” she began.

_Oh yes._ The idea. Whatever notion had planted itself in her pretty head, he would bow to her wishes.

Sansa withdrew a pile of white satin from the bag she’d brought home and took it to the bedroom. He stood there numbly, looking after her. Would he actually be able to place his hands on her? Would she allow it?

“Jon?” she called.

He moved. Down the hall, he closed the door behind himself and faced her. Her shoulders were bare. She held the fabric to her chest and it flowed down to the floor with a delicate shimmer, outlining the curves of her body. All she wore was a vixen’s smile.

_Please let me touch her._

Jon wasn’t sure which deity he was begging to. She raised the fabric above her head, obscuring her red locks.

He took two steps forward and reached for the satin. He pressed his fingers into it, then held the sides of her face. So thin was the sheet that he could almost feel her warmth through it. She tilted her head back, and he pressed his lips to the outline of hers.

His scalp prickled and the shivers ran down his neck, then his shoulders. Sansa’s soft little mouth was hot beneath his own. She leaned into him, dropping the fabric over his head and wrapping her arms around his shoulders.

They fit together perfectly. How long since he’d held her in his arms? Jon wanted to melt into her, to luxuriate in the feel of her body, but he had to keep his head. If he didn’t concentrate he would go straight through her.

This had to be about her pleasure. And gods above did he want to give her that.

He moved his hands down her neck, down to the curve of her breasts. They filled his palms, so soft he nearly slipped away from tangibility. He focused on the satin, not on the straining nipples beneath it. He rubbed circles in the white material, pinched it between his fingers. Sansa moaned.

“Sit on the bed for me,” he ordered.

***

Sansa’s knees buckled beneath her and she fell back onto the mattress.

Jon looked down at her for a moment, his eyes black with desire. Then he knelt before her.

“Will you hold this over my head?” he asked. She balked and he grinned boyishly, half his mouth curling up. “You won’t suffocate me, Sansa.”

He pressed his face into the satin and she pulled it back as he’d asked. She rubbed his curls, springy and dense. He came closer and pressed his face into her neck. The fabric was cool and slippery against her skin. It slid over her collar bones and back to her breasts where he caught one nipple between his lips and sucked.

“Oh!”

Lower she felt clothed knuckles brush her hipbone. Her pelvis jerked forward, and Jon made a pitiful whining sound. His hand dipped lower, still. When he palmed her sex she arched into his touch.

“_Please_,” she begged.

Was it the satin, or was it Jon? What about this made her entire body coil with heat? Her ghost was touching her, making her beg. She wished he could take her now, claim her. He would erase the touch of any other man from her skin.

His fingers caressed her lips, teasing her through the material. It tickled, his touch so light and careful while his mouth had slid over to the other breast. He suckled her so hard it ached, then released the nipple so that pleasure rolled down her spine.

With his head still covered, she could only picture him—her long lost lover who chose to endure a curse rather than betray her. She wished she’d come here years ago, come to find him and free him. He was what she’d spent her life searching for, the person she’d always been missing.

Jon circled her clit, gently at first and then with increasing pressure. Her toes curled, that delicious tension building inside her. She bit her lip, trying and failing to contain her moans. He stopped his ministrations and reached down to stroke up her slit. She cried out before he ducked his head between her legs and bit down on her nub, sucking the ecstasy from the very ends of her limbs.

Sansa shook around him, the orgasm blinding her vision. The satin was soaked from her release. She panted, and felt Jon press a kiss to her brow. When she opened her eyes he was extricating himself from the fabric, a content little smile setting his face aglow.

“Did you enjoy that?”

“_Mmmmmm_.”

“You’re so godsdamn beautiful,” he whispered.

She rolled onto her side. He stood beside the bed, watching her with those soft gray eyes. She’d actually mussed his curls. It made her ridiculously happy

“I love you, Jon.”

“I love you, too,” he crooned.

“You’re mine. I’m not giving you up.”

“I won’t ask you to.”

A scratch on the door alerted them to Ghost’s presence. Sansa sat up in bed with a laugh.

“Do you think he misses us?”

Jon shook his head. “He’ll survive.”

She stood on wobbly legs and pulled her clothes back on. “I happen to like when it’s the three of us. It feels like we’re a…family.”

“What is it?”

She’d frozen mid-step, ran over by a new train of thought. Three. Three. There were three crypts.

“Did the witch have any family?”

Jon moved toward her, concern seeping into his voice. “Just her brother. There were only two of them. Why? What’s wrong?”

Sansa couldn’t meet his gaze, couldn’t focus on anything but the loose thread she pulled at with her mind. She held a finger up to him and went to the kitchen. Both Jon and Ghost followed her. She flipped her notebook open.

_You may not touch what is mine_

The witch thought Jon was hers. And she’d had her possessions buried with her.

She looked up at Jon finally. He was frowning with worry.

“I know where your body is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hungry for more answers?  
Enjoy the smut?  
Like Joffrey's leg getting broken?  
Let me know!


	7. The Body

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Operation Free Your Man is in motion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some important plot details are fleshed out here. I hope it makes sense.  
Thank you all again for reading this little fic! We're nearing the finish line now.  
I'll update again on Halloween, then once more after for a resolution chapter.  
Also--I didn't have time to read over this chapter for an edit, so if something's off please lmk!

“Please don’t go back there.”

Sansa kept her eyes down. “I won’t go back tonight.”

It wasn’t as if she could break into a crypt without tools, anyway. Jon didn’t like that qualification, but he let it go.

They spent what little time remained them laying on their sides in her bed. They took turns tracing each other’s bone structure through the cotton sheet. Jon paid special attention to her nose, while she brushed up the sharp planes of his cheekbones. She fought sleep off, but it came to claim her.

She left her door open that night and woke to a light snoring. Ghost lay on her feet, a living bed warmer as a chill had settled over them in the night. She turned over and he rustled, snuggled closer.

The floors were ice. Sansa prepared for her day, the wolf following her with disapproval. She took him outside, fed him, then took his face in her hands.

“I have to go into town today. I can’t take you with me, but I _will_ be back.”

If a wolf could sigh, she’d swear he did. She ran her fingers through his fur, then drove to the hardware store.

She read a few articles on dismantling brick walls before taking her time to inspect sledgehammers, boltcutters, and wheelbarrows. An attendant tried to help her, but she couldn’t specify what she needed without incriminating herself. As she made her purchases, the checker offered her a smile.

“DIY project?”

Sansa nodded. “Something like that.”

Back at the cabin Jon met her at the door. He sniffed her all the way to the bedroom, where she found a rumpled bed and white fur on her pillow. She checked her emails and rewrote the previous article for her editor. He sat quietly by her chair. When she finished, she turned to him again.

“You want to go for a run?”

He picked his head up from his paws.

Once she’d changed they went out on her usual circuit through the woods. The air was crisp, but the afternoon sun kept them warm. The wolf could’ve outstripped her with ease but he kept pace. Regardless, he seemed pleased to stretch his legs.

Later she started a pot of stew, chopping vegetables and measuring barley. He sniffed the air as she worked. When Jon returned to his own form, he folded his arms.

“Tell me you aren’t going tonight.”

She kept her back to him, stirring. “I won’t lie to you.”

“Well thank you,” he sniped.

“I’ll come home. And I’m bringing your body with me.”

“You don’t have to do this,” he said.

“But I want to. Do you trust me?” His head tilted, indicating that of course he did. “Then trust me to be careful. I promised not to leave you alone, remember?”

After a long time, he nodded.

Sansa ate dinner, then stored her leftovers. She waited until after midnight, fearful of being caught trespassing. Her nerves worsened the longer she waited. She finally went to the door, then turned back to see him. Helpless to stop her, Jon could only wave. She waved back.

At the cemetery she pulled the wheelbarrow from the back of her car—she’d laid the seats down to fit it—and put the tools inside. She pushed it to the gate, then took the chain off with the boltcutters.

She had never been inside a cemetery past dark. Rumor had it these places were guarded by the first souls buried there. No one was there—it was a clear night, so she could see rows of headstones stretched out over an acre of land. The black granite mausoleum in the center shimmered like a mirage in the starlight.

The wheelbarrow grew heavier as she pushed it up a slight incline. At the steps she took the tools in her arms and carried them inside, resting them on the stone floor before going back for the wheelbarrow. She didn’t feel confident in her ability to carry a grown man, let alone a muscular one like Jon. That was assuming his body was here, intact and preserved. She had a funny feeling, though, that it was.

The door shut behind her with a heavy clang, blinding her in the pitch-black interior. She yanked her phone from her pocket and it rolled over her fingers before falling to the floor.

“It’s okay, you’re okay,” she told herself, feeling around her feet until she found the flat rectangle. She turned the flashlight on and ran to the nearest wall so she could press her back against it.

She turned her phone on the crypts, trying to discern which held Jon’s body. The loose tile came up in front of the center one—that must be the witch. The brother died before Jon, so Sansa decided to try the crypt on the far right. She propped her phone up to give herself some light, then grabbed the hammer drill.

First she’d need to score the mortar. The screech of the drill echoed off the walls, making her cringe. Bits of mortar sprinkled to the ground.

When that was done, she curled her fingers around the base of her sledgehammer. She took a few practice swings, feeling the weight of the thing. Her shoulders were broad, but her arms had little muscle to boast. The impact nearly knocked her down. She spread her feet and got to work.

Despite the cool air she began to sweat after only a few minutes. She dropped her jacket and continued pounding the wall, finally making cracks in the mortar. When the mortar was broken up to her satisfaction, she took a chisel to work bricks loose.

Brick by brick, the wall came down.

Inside the crypt lay a casket, covered in grime. There was just enough space for her to crawl inside. She retrieved her phone, then ducked into the space beside the casket. The lid unlatched with shocking ease, and for a heartbeat she feared this was a stranger's resting place. Her fingers shook as she pushed it open.

She gasped.

It was Jon, _her_ Jon, looking solid and mortal on cushions yellowed with age. He wore the same clothes she always saw him in, a white muslin shirt and dark pants.

He was beautiful. She’d always known it, but now that he lay before her, ostensibly asleep…The flashlight set a shine to his dark hair, his lashes curling against his cheeks like lines of ink. That strong brow, those pouty full lips--he looked like a dark prince.

Sansa reached out to finally, finally, touch his skin.

As her fingers neared his cheek, the coin at her throat pulsed. She was thrown back and knocked her head into the brick.

***

Jon paced around the cabin for hours.

At first he could tell himself that she was fine. That he was being overcautious, and she would come back soon. After two in the morning, however, he began to worry in earnest. Sansa shouldn’t be out so long doing this. She shouldn’t be alone at night. Wild things, men and animals alike, could attack her.

And he didn’t want to think of what the witch could do.

He wished she’d brought Ghost with her. At least then he could have some sense that she was alright, some reassurance that she would be protected. But all he could do was pace.

Ghost joined him, padding along with his ears perked forward like he was listening for something.

At three, Jon was ready to pull his hair out.

Something was wrong. She’d been caught, or hurt, or worse.

He couldn’t think about worse. It would ruin him. The thought of his sweet one lying alone somewhere…If she wasn’t back by dawn, he would find her. He opened the front door in preparation, knowing he wouldn’t be able to turn the knob as the wolf.

They waited. Four passed, then five. Twice they’d heard the sound of wheels coming from the road, but it wasn’t her. At six they both sat on their haunches, staring out the doorway into the black morning.

The light turned. Jon watched the horizon. Before he could see the sun creep up, he was the wolf.

The cemetery the witch had buried her brother in was about ten miles out the way he knew it. As the wolf, he could run the way the crow flew. He stretched his legs out beneath him, pushing against the earth and leaves and sniffing for her sharp and sweet scent.

He was panting when he reached an open gate. He could smell her trail heading inside. He followed it, confused by a pile of disturbed dirt. Had she stopped here? No, she’d kept going. He went up a set of steps with his nose to the ground and reached a set of doors.

She was inside. He knew it. The windows were too high to reach, but there was a gap between the doors and the ground. He pawed beneath the doors, trying to pull. The fifth attempt caused pain, but the door opened enough for him to stick his muzzle inside and wiggle his way through.

Bricks littered the floor, sharp bits digging in between his toe pads. He ran toward a hole in the wall and found her lying next to a casket.

Her heart still beat.

Jon bit down on her pants and tugged at them, trying to shake her awake. She slid down with her hair in the dust and rubble. Carefully, he stepped over her form and licked at her face. She tasted of sweat. He tried not to think of her parted lips or the ripe scent of her. Her eyelashes fluttered, and he whined.

“Ghost?”

Her voice was hoarse. He licked her face again until her eyes opened. She looked dazed, her pupils blown wide. He moved back, tugging at her pants once more. She moved then, crawled from the hole and sat on her knees.

“Jon?”

She looked up finally and saw the light that filtered in through the windows.

“Oh no!”

She reached back into the crypt and withdrew her phone before pulling her jacket on. Then she sifted through the rubble for tools. While she gathered her things he circled her to check for injuries.

Sansa pushed a wagon full of her tools and held the door for him. She moved slowly, tripping over her feet occasionally. Halfway through the cemetery he caught that strange scent again, just above a disturbed mound buried in between rows of headstones. It lay differently than the rest of the graves. He stopped there and sniffed, instinct telling him to dig. The scent was oddly familiar, like something from another life.

“Jon!”

She’d stopped ahead of him, almost to the gate. If anyone found her like this she could be in trouble with the law. He left the unmarked grave and ran to her side.

They made it to her car. She threw everything in the back, then circled around to open a door for him to jump into. He’d never sat in the front before. He had to take care not to bump any of the knobs or levers. She climbed in the other side, pulled a lever, and took the wheel in her hands.

The cabin door hung open just as he’d left it. His body was still hot with exertion but when Sansa got inside she started a fire, rubbing her arms for warmth. She retrieved her lap…laptop, then curled up on the sofa. He lay on her legs to share his body heat.

She typed something and stared at the screen. The fire eased the chill from the room slowly, the smell of wood and smoke filling his nose. He could hear a rattle in her chest with every breath she took. He wished he had his hands, had the ability to do something for her. All he could do now was keep her feet warm.

He watched her chew her lip and hold her hands to her face. She eventually got up to eat, laying some food out for him, as well. Then she let him outside. He circled the cabin as he always did, just to be sure she was safe. Though he’d bitten that man, he knew they hadn’t seen the last of him.

When he came back inside, she was coughing. He knocked her back toward the sofa.

“Okay, okay,” she acquiesced.

The day was nearly as long as the night before. He’d yip each time she moved to stand, not that it stopped her. When he was himself at last, Jon immediately went to the kitchen to heat the stew she’d made. He came back and threw the knit blanket over her.

“Do you feel weary? Feverish?”

She pouted adorably. “I’m fine. I took vitamin C supplements when I got home, and I’ve been drinking tea all day.”

“Achy?” he asked.

“Of course I ache,” she said, “I slept on a pile of bricks last night.”

He tucked the blanket around her legs and went to feed Ghost, fetching the stew and bringing it out to her before he sat on the floor at her side.

“After you eat I want you to take a hot bath. Then you’re going to sleep.”

“I can’t do that!” He gave her a sharp look, and she blew on her spoon before sipping. “I’ve been checking the news all day. There’s been no report on the cemetery, which probably means no one’s been inside the mausoleum yet. I can still get your body, but if I wait someone else could discover it.”

“I don’t care.”

She looked horrified. “Don’t you want to break the curse?”

“Not if you die of pneumonia. Now tell me what happened.”

She found a sudden interest in the stew. He wrangled his impatience, not wanting to upset her when she was feeling poorly—even if she wouldn’t admit it. He waited for her to finish eating.

“Sansa?”

“Something happened when I tried to touch you.” She reached up to tug at the necklace around her throat. “It was like the coin zapped me or something. It pushed me back, and I must have passed out.”

The wolf medallion. Of course it was a part of the witch’s curse. Jon went to find Sansa’s papers, the ones she’d written the curses on. He read it over and over again before going back to the sofa.

“You know that the Lover refers to you,” he began. “Past and present you. But I don’t think the witch could’ve predicted your reincarnation. I don’t think she could’ve cursed you before you were born.” Sansa nodded slowly, her eyes unfocused again. “The necklace you’re wearing has belonged to you for many years.” She sat up now, her muscles tensed. “We were children when Grandmother Lyarra gave it to you. It’s allowed you to see me without my body, but…I think it’s what keeps you from being able to touch me, as well. I think that when the witch unbound my spirit, she cursed your necklace as well.”

She fingered the medallion, dragged it along the silver chain. She was quiet for a long time, but he knew she was just thinking. He took her empty bowl to the basin and whistled for Ghost. The wolf followed him to the living room and jumped up on the sofa to warm her feet again.

“She killed Robb, didn’t she?”

Jon took a step back. “How did you—?”

“When I found the land titles I saw his name. My brother left you this land when he died. When she killed him.”

He shook his head, trying to follow the track she’d taken. “Robb died, but she told me it wasn’t her doing.”

“Then she lied.”

“Then she lied,” he repeated.

Jon was a fool to take the witch at her word, and he had every reason to believe Sansa now. He just didn’t know where her certainty came from. Was she basing her theory of Robb’s murder on his reincarnation? Like the witch's involvement was what brought them both back?

“I don’t know why you’re here, Sansa.”

At last, she smiled. It was a familiar look, half teasing and half content. “I do.”

“Nature brought you and Robb back, it’s true. And Robb’s return _could_ be because the witch went against nature to kill him. But she didn’t kill you. So if you’re sure Robb was murdered, then why were you brought back, as well?”

“To free you,” she said, simple as anything. “The spells in her book are written in blood, Jon. What she did was unnatural. Killing Robb, trapping you. Robb is alive again because she must have murdered him. And I’m alive again because I’m the only one who can break your curse.”

It _was_ simple as anything. How was he so lucky to have won, not once but twice, the heart of a woman so wise?

“The witch caused an unbalance, and nature is setting it right.”

She nodded proudly. “Exactly.”

Once his awe of her sunk in, he could register another emotion. A wild kind of panic settled deep in his belly. Sansa believed freeing him was her purpose. But it could only be done with her death.

He ripped her spell translation from the book of paper, crumpled it up, and tossed it in the fire before she could utter another word. Sansa got to her feet, waking Ghost from his nap and sending the wolf to the floor again where he circled the rug by the hearth.

“I’ve already memorized the spells,” she said.

He clenched his hands into fists, breathing through his nose. “Of course you have.”

She looked at him with pity, but he knew she wouldn’t apologize. Not for being too smart for her own good, or risking herself for his sake. He vowed to God, nature, whatever was listening that he would teach this woman her own value if he was given the chance. She massaged the pad of her thumb with the opposite hand, a nervous gesture.

“I think I will take that bath.”

His frustration deflated some. He could never be angry with her, not really.

“Do you need anything?”

She shook her head. “Thank you for dinner.”

***

While the tub filled, Sansa gathered what she’d need from the bedroom. Boots, a thick sweater and a scarf. She brought her wallet and keys to the bathroom, as well.

It was okay that Jon had burnt her notes. If their situations were reversed, she probably would’ve done the same. It didn’t mean that he doubted her ability to save him. It meant that he didn’t want to lose her.

She just didn’t think it would come to that. After all, hadn’t Sansa Stark already died? Why would the curse require her death a second time?

Before she sunk into the tub, she took the necklace off and put it in the medicine cabinet.

Admittedly, the hot water felt wonderful. It soothed the knots in her back and eased the tightness in her chest. She’d probably have to deal with mucus for the next few days, but a little cold was nothing she hadn’t bounced back from before. His concern, though, set off an achy little joy radiating through her body. She rolled her neck, and it popped.

The bubbles dissipated and her fingers pruned. She toweled off thoroughly before pulling her jeans on and bundling up against the weather. Her hair stayed knotted at the crown of her head. Belongings in hand, she opened the bathroom door.

_Sight alone would be too kind._ Jon would no longer be visible or audible to her now. She kept her eyes on the floor.

“Can you come here?” She waited a moment to speak again. “Would you try to…touch me? Please?”

She counted her breaths, the cabin unbearably still. When his fingertips brushed her cheek, her eyes closed. She could feel his rough skin, though his touch was light as a summer breeze. A pulse raced up her neck when he moved down to graze her jaw. Then he traced her lips.

He kissed her. His lips were so soft, moving so sweetly against her own that he could be cotton candy about to dissolve in her mouth.

Sansa whispered that she loved him. Then she ran to the door.

If he could touch her, then she could move his body. She drove to the twenty-four-hour supermarket and searched for the sporting goods section. Near the camping supplies, she found a green tarp. It would have to do.

The cemetery was quiet, just like last night. The same chain that she’d broken still hung around the gate. She couldn’t believe her luck.

She pushed the wheelbarrow again, this time with the folded tarp inside, toward the mausoleum. She didn’t hesitate tonight, just strode for the opened crypt. It was just as she’d left it. She unfolded the tarp and lay it out over the wheelbarrow, positioning it at the foot of the casket.

Jon still slept inside, not a hair out of place. She set her flashlight down and propped the casket open, then grabbed his ankles. Nothing happened. She struggled to contain her relieved laughter. His leg hair was surprisingly soft against her fingers.

One tug pulled a grunt from her lips, and not much else. She braced her feet and used her legs this time, leaning back and keeping her arms straight. His body shifted enough for her to pull his calves over the lip of the casket. _Christ_ he was heavy. Several more wrenches that nearly pulled her shoulders from their sockets, and he was nearly in the wheelbarrow. She clambered over him, climbing into the casket so she could take him under his arms and lift his torso.

He fell into the wheelbarrow with a dull thud. She grimaced. His legs hung over the edge. She folded the tarp around him, tried to pull him so he wasn’t lying on his face. He smelled like dirt and cold, like a pile of dry leaves.

The wheelbarrow, though heavy, was manageable. She rolled the body over the steps of the mausoleum with caution, then pushed toward the gate with all her might. There’d be no explaining this to a passerby.

Halfway to the exit, the front wheel sunk into a hole. It was the same hole she’d fallen into before. The same unmarked grave Jon had stopped to sniff.

_Who_ buried a person in a walkway?

Sansa leaned into the handles and pushed down on them, digging her boots into the ground. The leverage lifted the front wheel up, and she could move forward once more.

She popped her trunk and pulled the tarp inside, laying his legs out as best she could before lowering the trunk over him. She’d kiss his head before the ride, but there just wasn’t time.

The drive back to the cabin was nerve-wracking. She kept checking her rearview for headlights. A car pulled up behind her once, and her throat closed up in panic. After a mile, though, they took a left turn.

She took a sharp turn into the drive so she could back up to the porch, then popped her trunk again. She threw the front door open and called to Jon.

“I’ve got it!”

If he responded, she couldn’t hear. She took the tarp in her hands and dragged his body across the porch and over the threshold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of plot, but things are rolling now!  
(no pun intended)  
Hope you liked it! <3


	8. The Grave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Jon's body exhumed and safe, now Sansa must figure out the last detail of the curse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Halloween!  
I'm so happy you've all been entertained by this October fic. Your comments are always so kind and encouraging, so thank you!  
One more chapter after this, but the spooky factor stops here.

It still took immense concentration to touch her, but he could now. When Sansa came home again, tugging a body inside, he was so relieved that he pushed her against the door.

The whole hour she was gone he despaired. One kiss, and she’d left. One feel of her warmth and he could lose her again. He couldn’t stop himself from touching her now. She gasped, unable to see him coming. He pressed his front against hers, took her face in his hands, and kissed her as he hadn’t before—as if it were his last chance to do so.

This was enough. So long as she was safe, being halfway here was enough. Sansa’s body molded into his, soft but solid. He could weave his fingers through her gorgeous hair, brush his tongue against her plump lower lip. She leaned into him and it was more than enough. It was too much. She released a breath into his mouth, and he melted into her. She shivered, curled her arms over her chest. He stepped back and had to catch his breath before he could take her hand.

She smiled, her gaze far away. It would’ve been nice if her eyes were unfocused because of him, because of their kiss, but Jon knew she simply couldn’t see him. He tugged her hand and led her to the bathroom. He watched her take the necklace from a cabinet and put it on. When it landed at the hollow of her throat she found his reflection in the mirror and smiled again, this time just for him.

“You really need to get in bed now,” he said gently.

The smile vanished. “I’m fine.”

They had a little staring contest in the mirror before she moved past him to reclaim her position on the sofa. She combed her fingers through Ghost’s fur, making Jon supremely jealous. How would her fingers feel in his curls, brushing against his scalp?

“It’s yours,” she said, and jerked her chin toward the canvas pile on the floor.

“So I assumed. Unless you’ve exhumed a poor stranger.”

She shook her head at him. “What a thing to say.”

Sansa typed into her laptop some more. He stood to stoke the fire, wondering if he should make her some tea. Verbena and honey?

The body lay by the door, unmoving. Part of him wanted to lift the canvas and peer down at his form. Would something terrible happen? They said out of body experiences were disorienting, but then, his continued existence had been one long out of body experience. He decided to leave the body alone. He didn’t really want to see it, anyway.

Sansa’s cough worsened the next day. He blocked the door and growled when she approached it. Her looks were resentful, but he knew she felt terribly. He kept her warm while she wrote and watched her picture shows. Thankfully, she kept herself hydrated.

At night he wrapped her up in blankets and rubbed her shoulders. With each sneeze she complained of his presence.

“I don’t want you to see me like this,” she said, nose red and swollen.

“Why not?” he asked. “Wouldn’t you like to see me in all my mortality? Sick or old?”

Her mouth curled up, though she tried to suppress it. “You’d make such a cute old man.”

“Cute?”

“Handsome,” she amended. “But I don’t want your pity. I like for you to think well of me.”

Jon wrapped his arms around the blanket to hold her close. “Oh darling, I do. You’re lovely even now. And you know,” he leaned in to her ear, “you never need fear being vulnerable around me.”

She relaxed against him. “I know that, Jon.”

He hoped she did. However Joffrey had treated her in the past taught her to be afraid of imperfection. It was like she thought her beauty was what made her worthy of fair treatment. Jon resolved to treat her extra special on such days when she didn’t feel beautiful.

***

Sansa started feeling better the next day. Remarkably so. She thought she would’ve grown accustomed to Jon’s attentions, but this was another thing altogether. For the past eight years she took care of her siblings whenever they were sick or hurt. The last people to take care of her this way were Ned and Catelyn. And now Jon.

Jon said he loved her, but she’d have to adjust to _feeling_ loved like this. What she couldn’t get used to was being babied. If she let herself rest, who knew when he would be free?

She rewrote the original curse from memory so she could study it once more, working on the table so the wolf couldn’t see. She even kept him distracted by dropping scraps of lean meat to the floor.

_Spirit and flesh shall be unbound_

_‘Til the Lover’s grave is found_

_When Spirit bends unto my will_

_By his hand Lover’s blood must spill_

The old Sansa was dead, but her grave must have importance, still. In all likelihood, she’d been buried in the old cemetery.

When the wolf came back inside from a business trip, she promised again to return. Today, though, he wouldn’t let her go alone. He followed hot on her trail, slipping out the door and waiting by her car to be let in. She relented.

The road to the cemetery was familiar by now. Fog hung in the air today and obscured the headstones. The wolf was just a flash of white beside her, his presence a comfort. She wandered for an hour, bending to check every name she passed, but none were her family.

The Starks weren’t from Karhold, after all. She might have more luck in a Winterfell graveyard. Her parents were buried in a modest but spacious family plot with room enough for a few generations. It was where Sansa wanted to be buried.

She found a plot of Karstarks, which might be some distant relation. She pretended they were, at least. There was a Rickard and even an Eddard Karstark, which was close enough. She knelt in the grass with her fingers tracing the name. Ghost pressed into her side, and she realized she’d been crying.

“Our family was torn apart,” she told him. “We weren’t even put to rest with them. I won’t let that happen again.”

He nuzzled her hand. She stroked his fur.

She followed him back toward the gate, not realizing he twisted their path until they came upon it. The unmarked grave. There must have been countless unmarked graves on this land, but this one they kept coming back to.

_It’s mine_.

Sansa had no proof. Just a sharp feeling in her chest and a whisper in her mind—something that told her to pay attention.

On the drive home, she was followed. At first she thought she was being paranoid and took a few wrong turns through the back roads. The car kept its distance, too far for her to make out the driver in the rearview though she knew who’d be following her. They stayed behind her though, all the winding way back to the cabin.

She ran inside and locked the door. The rest of the afternoon she peeked out the windows, but the car wasn’t there. She never changed into comfortable clothes, kept her keys in her pocket.

For dinner she decided to order a pizza. When Jon appeared, though, she told him she was making a salad. He stood at the counter to watch, unsuspecting. His brow did that brooding thing, drawn together that told her he was worried about something. She smiled sweetly, and he gave her one back. She took an avocado from the fridge.

“Can you hand me the big knife?”

Jon took it from the block and held the handle out to her.

She grabbed the blade instead and gripped it hard.

He pulled the knife back, deepening the wound. A hiss broke from between her teeth. His expression was all terror.

“Did I hurt you?”

She squeezed her arm, willing the blood to fill her palm.

“Oh gods,” he cried, “let me see!”

She cupped her hand away from him. He must have seen victory in her eyes, because realization bloomed on Jon’s face. Then hurt. She hated to see it, but it had to be this way. She knew he’d never willingly hurt her—he’d left her no choice but to trick him.

“What have you done?”

Sansa used her cut hand to pull the necklace free. The coin burned in her fist, blood dripping to the floor now.

“I’ll be back.”

Of course she couldn’t hear his answer. In her head she imagined Jon yelling. But he couldn’t stop her now. She ran out the door and fished her keys from her back pocket.

Driving with one good hand was an interesting challenge, though not impossible. Very few drivers occupied the dark roads, trees blocking out the residual light of dusk.

This would work. It had to work. The old Sansa’s death wasn’t enough—her blood had to be spilled by Jon’s hand. The witch wanted him to choose.

Daenerys truly never knew Jon if she thought he would choose himself over another, if she thought he would hurt someone he loved.

The cemetery was still open. She parked in two spaces and ran inside, down the aisle to the disturbed pile of earth. None of the old Sansa’s family remained to bury her, so the witch had done it. The unmarked grave, never facing the horizon and to be walked over every day, was the witch’s last taunt.

Sansa dug a little hole and buried the necklace with its owner, covered in blood drawn by Jon’s own hand. She rubbed clumps of dirt in her hands for good measure, making the cut sting.

“I finished it,” she whispered, wanting her to know. “He’ll be free now.”

The cold seeped through her clothes at last. She stood for a while longer, then turned to leave. She’d nearly made it to the gate when she looked up to find Joffrey leaning against it. He had a crutch under one arm, his leg covered in a black brace.

“You’re fucking filthy,” he called.

She smiled numbly. “Only on the outside.”

He pointed a finger down, ordering her to come. As he blocked the exit, she didn’t have much choice.

“Listen here you little bitch,” he seethed, face pinched in anger. “I’m done playing this game. You can’t hide from me. We’re going home tonight, and I’ll deal with you there.”

After everything that had happened in the last few days, she couldn’t bring herself to fear him anymore. Maybe she was too tired. Maybe the sight of him crawling on the ground had given her strength. She just knew there were better things to fear than Joffrey.

“I’m not going with you.”

He blinked stupidly, his mouth dropping open. When he recovered, it was with that violent look in his eyes she so detested.

“If you don’t get in that car I’ll fucking make you.”

He lifted his crutch as if he would hit her with it. Sansa moved back, then nodded so he would lower the crutch. He stood sideways to let her pass.

Once she’d moved through the gate, she ran. It wasn’t as if he could catch her. She crossed the street and made for the woods where he’d have to follow on foot. His anger faded from her ears as her roaring heartbeat filled them. The wood was so dense she could barely see. She tripped over the roots of a tree but kept her pace, churning through the leaves with every step.

“Where do you think you’re going!?”

She didn’t look back. He was in the woods now, but still a ways behind her. With any luck he’d slip, or get lost and die of exposure.

A snarl came from before her, too close to be Joffrey. Sansa stilled, wrapped her arms around a trunk and listened. Her lungs burned with the cold air. A beast charged by, but it was too dark to see. It continued on, back toward the cemetery.

Maybe a minute passed when she heard Joffrey’s screams.

The screams kept on until they changed into coughs. She moved back the way she’d come, the crunch of leaves drowning out other sounds she didn’t wish to hear. As the trees cleared more light came through. She could see a shape on the ground now, hear him gurgling on blood.

Sansa was careful not to touch him. If his body was found her DNA could be evidence, though this was clearly an animal attack. Closer to the cemetery, she found Ghost. Jon must have sent him after her.

Joffrey was dead, but she didn’t feel relieved. She just felt tired. Ready to start a new day, one where she didn’t have to be afraid.

Ghost followed her to the parking lot. Once she was at her car, he returned to the woods. Presumably to finish his meal. He was a wild animal, after all. It didn’t mean he wasn’t a good boy, too. She knew he’d come back.

She drove home. Night had settled in. She followed the bend of the black roads, looking out for animals in her headlights.

Just ahead a shape came for her. She slammed on her brakes, watched the man run up with his arm shielding his eyes. He wore those same clothes, foreign and familiar all at once.

She slipped from the car and went to meet him, chasing her long shadow up the road. It felt like the world held its place in the heavens as it waited for them to collide.

“Are you alright?”

Relief closed her throat, made her hiccup gasps of air. She stumbled forward and threw her arms around him.

Jon caught her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Curse broken!!!  
Couldn't have a Halloween story without a chase through the woods, could I? Let's all rejoice that Joff is dead and Jon is back in his sexy, sexy body.  
So, enough chills and thrills for you?  
Next chapter will be the sweet resolution our babies need. Excited?


	9. The Wound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon takes care of Sansa's wound--then the rest of her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all enjoy this epilogue.  
This will be my first completed multi-chapter fic, so I'm excited!

Jon held her in the road, both their eyes closed to the dangers around them. Sansa felt cold in his arms for once. She shook, pressed her face into his neck. Jon breathed her in.

“Shall we go home?”

She found her footing, hands spread against his chest like she couldn’t believe it. He could hardly believe it himself. Upon opening his eyes he hadn’t had time to think—he’d just gone to find her. They walked back to the car.

After all the time spent trapped inside the cabin, there was nowhere he would rather be. They walked over the threshold hand in hand. Sansa started the shower and kicked off her shoes. Jon pulled his shirt over his head.

Her eyes dripped down his torso like molasses, slow and sweet. As they roamed lower he watched the blue darken, watched her catch that lower lip between her teeth. She pulled her shirt off next, her skin so pale against the black of her under things. She looked up shyly from between the red sheets of her hair. He tried to smile, but he could hardly manage to breathe. She reached out to brush at the sprinkling of hair on his chest. He jerked at the light touch and they laughed together, nerves dissipating somewhat.

Sansa pushed her pants down over her knees. Her legs went on forever, the only binaries he’d beg the gods to get caught between. She fingered the straps on her shoulders and raised an eyebrow expectantly.

He ripped a button off his pants with eager hands. Sansa giggled and slipped her straps down, then turned her back to him. She glanced over her shoulder with a coy look. Jon examined the band over her ribs secured by two little hooks. He pulled them free and the garment fell to the floor. She dropped the final scrap of clothing and hopped into the shower before he could properly admire her pert form.

_This is real_. He stood there and tried to fathom it. He was here, and Sansa was with him. His darling friend had actually saved him, a task he thought impossible only a month ago. Was anything impossible for Sansa Stark?

“You coming?”

Jon stepped past the curtain to find her soaking, water glistening off the numerous curves of her body. She’d revived him only to stop his heart again. She released a tiny hiss of pain, and he finally noticed that she was busy washing the dirt from her wound. It looked angry, made him ache for her. He took her hand to run his lips over her knuckles.

“Did I thank you?” he asked.

“There’s no need for that.”

“Of course there is. You were stubborn and reckless,” she rolled her eyes at him, “and brilliant and brave, and I wouldn’t be here without you.”

Sansa tipped her head under the water, but she couldn’t fool him. Her cheeks were decidedly more pink than before and it had nothing to do with the steam.

“We take care of each other,” she reasoned. “That’s what partners do.” She opened her eyes again, that sweet vulnerability returning. “Right?”

Jon wrapped her up in his arms. He wanted to memorize this feeling. It was a perfect pain, bone deep and addicting. She clung to him as he crushed her ribcage. He released her so she could breathe again. There was such love in her eyes he could hardly bear it. He held her face carefully to press a kiss to her brow, just as he’d tried to do those weeks ago.

“Will you let me wash you?” he asked.

She hummed a dreamy sound of consent and handed him a bottle.

“For my hair.”

He squeezed a soap like cream in his hand and massaged it into her scalp. It smelled of lavender. Her head fell back as he worked it into a lather, and he could see rivulets disappear between her breasts. He was painfully hard, but focused on the task at hand. She rinsed and stepped out of the spray with a gesture. He moved beneath the water and threw his curls back, running his fingers through them and rubbing the lavender soap in. The heat of the rain traveled down and reminded him of his muscles, his tendons, the stiff joints he hadn’t properly felt in ages.

When he opened his eyes Sansa was finger combing another cream through the ends of her hair. Jon wondered at all the ways ladies groomed, his eyes traveling down of their own accord. He nearly whined when he spied a neat patch of red at the juncture of her legs. _Gods_ he wanted her. For tonight, though, he’d be content just to hold her if she would allow.

She poured a viscous liquid into a sponge, the sharp scent familiar. He thought she’d wash herself, but she held the sponge and waited with round eyes.

“May I?”

“Please darling, please touch me,” he said, far more desperately than he would’ve liked.

Sansa scrubbed over his chest, shoulders, and back, intent on her work. She pressed her lips to his collarbone and his eyes snapped shut. The sensations of warmth and desire and sanctity overwhelmed him. This seemed to make her brave, for she traveled lower with the sponge. Over his abdominal muscles and hips down to his thighs and then, shockingly, she took his cock in her good hand and cleaned him with soft strokes. A deep groan crawled up his throat. She set the sponge aside and they swapped places.

Jon needed to touch her. He poured her verbena soap in his hands and rubbed circles into her skin. He lathered her body up at his leisure, caressing her breasts and ass along the way. When he used his thumbs on her lower back she released a delicate moan. She arched into him, bracing herself against the tile wall. He slipped his hands over her skin, wanting to discover every inch of this lush land. He touched her rosy nipples, then her belly, then the tops of her thighs.

“I need you,” she keened.

He nipped her ear, barely able to stop himself from taking her there against the tile.

“Let me bind your wound first.”

She sighed as she reached for the knob.

They dried, and Sansa sat on the counter with a linen about her torso. Jon searched for supplies in his nakedness. Perhaps it was his time as the wolf or the hungry look in his lady’s eyes as she watched him, but he was unashamed.

Sansa told him what to use to disinfect the cut, then pointed out an ointment. She bit her lip at the pain, though he tried to be gentle. He wrapped her hand in gauze with feather light kisses before meeting her gaze again.

“Will you take me to bed now?”

“I’ll take you anywhere you like.”

She grinned. “Let’s start with the bed.”

***

Jon lay above Sansa, pressing her into the mattress with a weight that felt like solace. She played with his curls and traced the curves of his back while he worked at her neck tirelessly. It must have been a solid hour of his tongue, lips, and teeth tugging at the skin of her throat. She throbbed, startlingly close to that precipice already.

He wasn’t leaving her. Not now, at least. Maybe not ever.

Jon plucked at her nipple, ending any train of thought. Her hips bucked and he took the hint, fingers trailing down. He brushed past her curls as he sucked another bloom just below her ear. Finally, he reached her sex. He stroked the slit with his rough fingertips before parting her lips. His finger slid inside with an explicit sound of dampness.

“Is that for me?” he whispered.

“Yes. _Yes._”

“Open your eyes.”

He hovered over her now, watching with that piercing gaze. His finger fucked her achingly slow. Sansa felt herself clench around it with growing desperation. Jon just watched her.

“I want you to peak, Sansa. Can you do that for me?” She couldn’t answer, reaching out for release. “I want to see ecstasy all over your face.”

She whimpered. His face was all relaxation as he continued to draw his finger in and out of her weeping cunt. Those eyes, though, were swallowed by black. He pushed another finger inside and brushed against that spot _just right_. She groaned now, ready to fall.

“There you are, love. That’s it.”

Her mouth fell open as her eyes squeezed shut. Jon whispered sweet things until her legs stopped shaking. He withdrew his fingers and she heard him moan, though she didn’t realize what he’d done until he kissed her deeply to share the taste. She was still dizzy with pleasure when he disappeared for a moment only to shoulder her legs apart. Sansa could only gasp his name as he lapped the slick up from her center. She tugged on his curls, but he pinned her legs down until she was sobbing.

“Shhh,” he soothed. “So sensitive, darling.”

“I’ll show you sensitive.”

Giving oral wasn’t something she’d felt particularly confident about before, but something told her Jon would be grateful regardless of her skill level.

She pushed him onto his back and kissed his torso the way she’d been craving. He shuddered with every touch. When she sucked on his nipple he laughed loudly only for it to dissolve into lovely moans. His full lips parted so sweetly for her when she licked the hollow of his hip. There was a little scar there that wrenched her heart.

His cock was gorgeous, standing tall and straight for her with a thick vein and a pink head. Sansa gave it a kiss before taking the tip in her mouth. In all their explorations, Jon had touched and satisfied her but she’d never been able to do the same. She swirled her tongue and sucked hard.

_Thunk!_

“Are you okay?”

“M’fine!” She frowned up at him with worry, but he gave her a lopsided grin. “Just knocked my skull into the headboard. Please don’t stop, love.”

She took him to the back of her throat and stroked the underside of his shaft with her tongue. He brushed her hair back when it fell forward in that attentive way of his. The way his hands shook made her feel like a goddess. She ran her thumb over his balls to make him groan.

“You’re so perfect,” he rambled. “So good and depraved and _fucking _Christ, Sansa!”

She giggled around him, and that was it. He tasted salty going down. When she’d swallowed it all, Jon pulled her back into his arms.

They couldn’t stop touching each other. Little taps and tickles, fingers dancing across each others’ skin. Jon traveled the path laid out by her freckles, and she found an adorable beauty mark just above his ass.

It didn’t take him long to be ready again. Sansa asked him to make love to her. He worried at first, but she enlightened him on the marvels of modern medicine.

“Tell me if I hurt you,” he pleaded just before he sank into her.

He mistook her gasp for pain and tried to pull away, but she held him still.

She was utterly, deliciously full of him. It made her feel drunk. His curls smelled of her shampoo and he brushed his lips over her forehead and this was better than anything she could’ve dreamed for herself.

“I love you.”

His eyes were unfathomable. “Careful, I’m susceptible to enchantments. You shouldn’t say such things unless you want me to haunt you forever.”

She whispered it against his lips, into his throat, and screamed it once more just before they shattered apart together.

***

A week later and they still held hands wherever they went. Neither could bear not to, though they’d acknowledged the impracticality of it.

Jon had practiced driving that morning. He wasn’t bad at all, just inexperienced. He planned to find work building things—he’d built the cabin, after all. Sansa seemed surprised at that, though it was part of a promise he’d made to her long ago. They could find a new home if she wanted, but for now they were content.

Yesterday they’d raked up piles of leaves and had a bonfire, burning his old clothes, as well. Sansa had taken him to a clothing store for new things and all he had to do was keep up. He felt like he’d spend a lot of time keeping up until he adjusted to life again. When he expressed his worries to Sansa that he might burden her she’d simply laughed.

“If being loved is a burden then it’s one I will endure.”

She was working now. He’d taken a run with Ghost while she wrote, then proceeded to fix lunch. An instructional video he found on the—_online_ taught him how to prepare chicken salad sandwiches.

“Don’t be weird.”

Jon turned to find Sansa with her phone to her ear. She blew him a kiss.

“You’ll like him. Just come with dessert? Okay. I’ll see you guys soon. Give everyone a hug.”

She set her phone down and sidled up beside him.

“Yum! I’m starving.”

“I thought you might be. Was that family?”

She took a bite and nodded. The sandwiches were okay—they were good, actually. He bumped her hip while he chewed.

“I hope you’re ready for some company,” she said, and grinned. “My siblings are coming for dinner on Friday.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Endless hugs for all of you who've been supporting this work. Our babies deserve every happy ending that could possibly occur, so I hope this resolution didn't leave you wanting. The Jonsa community is truly phenomenal, and I'm so lucky to be a part of it.


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